Tomorrow's Forecast.

That rain they were sixty-percenting and eighty-percenting us about is finally cranking up—we've had little spit-showers off and on since noonish, but now I'm hearing fat drops on the kitchen vent, hearing it on the deck out back. I've seen the radar, and I'd say it looked like it was going to set in, but things have been massing and then breaking back up all day. The radar's a handful of seeds somebody threw on the ground. This is perhaps what they mean when they say scattered showers.

The time change has got me fouled, has me waking up oddly, and we don't even have all the clocks changed over, so it may be one time upstairs and another downstairs. Hard to say. We keep this up through enough time changes and eventually it'll be last week upstairs and this week down here. We can sell tickets, let people walk upstairs and make important phone calls to their future selves. Don't send that email. Avoid the chicken. That kind of thing.

Little warmup coming. Little 10003 phone call coming. Little pasting-the-inside-of-my-head-back-together coming. Maybe I'll go upstairs and give myself a call and let me know how it goes. It'd be one hell of a way to predict the weather.