My feet are twin loci of ache
I would say pain, but I'm not in that bad of a state. Climbing a dang mountain is tricksy, but not suicidal. I don't entirely subscribe to the theory that the view and the ability to truthfully say that you have completely the task validate the effort expended in the act, but given the choice between sitting at the campsite on my own doing nothing and being extremely bored, versus sucking it up and stomping up the trail anyways, I side with the doing something.

As one might have surmised, I was camping this weekend, and on the whole it was grand. The weather played along, aside from a few short bouts of moistness, and the locale was certainly acceptable. Highlights of the weekend included the majesty of a retardulously huge tent, the stringing up of some impressive tarp architecture, and the destruction and resurrection of several fires. Also, the thundering reverb of laughter at those running around drunk in their underpants, shacked at the ankles by pants.

The sole low of the weekend incidentally had nothing to do with the camping whatsoever, and more to do with the fact that the shower was out of commission for a couple of hours when I got home, and I had to wait. Oh noes (!!!1!) indeed.

(Wait, let me rephrase. The sole low of the weekend was having a flamethrower next to my head. That's fucking terrifying.)  ¶ 7:41 p.m.