no man shall see my face and live
I have discovered a new Arizona writing fuel: orange juice and tapwater with a splash of lime. It's sort of like Gatorade, but more ghetto. It keeps you at your desk, somehow; like a hummingbird, you subsist on fructose.
Dec. 23, 1855. Think of the life of a kitten, ours for instance: last night her eyes set in a fit, doubtful if she will ever come out of it, and she is set away in a basket and submitted to the recuperative powers of nature; this morning running up the clothes-pole and erecting her back in frisky sport to every passer.