Just as I was about to hit the road to Santa Fe for another installment in my glorious dental transplant adventure, it happened again: the toilet wouldn’t flush!
Less than a month after I had the septic tank pumped out — the landlady lives in Pennsylvania, so it’s up to me — it had filled up once more, and there was evil black water covering the lid. Obviously, the septic system is dead, which inexplicably raises little concern where I expect it. At least not on the “JESUS CHRIST WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!” level it rates with me.
Of course, this is just another side of living in northern New Mexico, where anything goes, nothing works, and nobody cares. There are days — most of them, actually — when I find this liberating. Today it makes me feel like my momma doesn’t love me, which she doesn’t, in fact [see preceding post], or that my daddy was a drunk, and I think I’ll stop right there.
Not at all opposed to funky, mind you, but funky’s gotta work.
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