Nature G committed suicide.

I'm home at the moment; mostly what I wanted last night was nookie but mostly what my wife wanted was three hours of comfort about what to do about the fact that our president wants to argue about what are and are not concentration camps (PROTIP: if you're arguing semantics and concentration camps, you've already lost). Gotta go change out my phone, buy some protein (Q: how do you adapt to being a rich fuck living in a food desert? A: bring groceries with you on the plane!) and send myself a staple gun and a paring knife because I forgot the latter and didn't know I needed the former. This has been a 36-hour trip, which sucks, but beats the ever-loving tar out of no trip.

The front sprocket on the bike is cashed. It's no longer made by Shimano. Which means changing out a bunch of shit; honestly the derailleurs are due, as are the shifters, at which point I'm looking at a $250 amazon list that will hopefully return it to function. A local bike shop says they can do it for $300. I'ma pay 'em. I might buy something new and send the old war horse back up to Seattle. It's currently 200 miles shy of 10,000 miles and by the time I get it refurbished it'll be within 50. But I'm more than a little conflicted about buying another bike for Los Angeles 'cuz fuckin' hell I was supposed to be done with this shit by now.

Jewelry illustration continues apace. However, my latest sketches are a thousand miles away behind two locked gates so it'll have to wait until tomorrow.

Tired. Worn out. Too much to do, none of it fun, and City of Quartz is a rough book to listen to while bombing through a concrete culvert full of detritus and homeless addicts. It makes me want to throw on a dishdasha and accuse everyone I meet of being decadent and corrupt.