000097 #worm I have to admit I get a secret joy out of having a car that burns oil. Weirdly enough, I had always wanted one but never had the pleasure. I remember the first neo-pagan witches I ever met. They had an old silver bomb of a car, with Alaska plates cuz they'd driven it straight down all the way from Ketchikan to Denver, and that's where I met them, in my college friend's apartment, smoking pot and playing the flute. Helena and I were playing flutes, that is; the two neo-pagans were either singing or laughing or moving their stuff into her apartment because they were all going to live together, cheifly so that she would be able to afford the rent and stop writing hot checks all over town. That was stressful, the always being broke and trying to slip a postdated check past a clerk at the grocery store. So while they moved boxes and burned sage, we smoked pot and slowly but surely got worse and worse at flute-playing until our lips stuck to the mouthpieces and we laughed and gave it up.