Write about: the password.
More weed eating this morning. I could hardly forget, since my hands are still vibrating.
Taking a break from the machinery tomorrow as it's time once again to harvest for the market. It's going to be mostly berries this week on our end, with lots of fruit (apples, pears, peaches, nectarines) coming from Kat's parents.
We don't have any helpers though, so I should probably get to bed and rest up for what promises to be a long day. A long couple of days, if I include the market itself.
Early one Sunday morning (well, it was nearly noon, but that was early for him) in October, Glen Bishop sat down at his computer desk and thumbed on the power. While he waited for the mysterious start up process to complete he began to notice a few things about his immediate surroundings.
And what he saw worried him.
Two empty beer bottles lay next to his mouse pad, almost touching but not quite. Just like how he and Kelly used to lay in bed together at night. On the floor at his feet three more empties clinked together as he rotated in his seat, trying to see into the kitchen down the hall. There, he found the most damning evidence of all.
A half empty bottle of whiskey.
"Not good," he muttered as the computer finished booting and presented him with the logon screen. By this point he knew it was pointless, but he tried his password anyway.
The error message was so expected that he barely bothered to read it.
Clearly he had decided to change his password at the height of one of his infamous benders. It could be anything. Likely misspelled, it was safe to say.
"Well," he said as he got up and headed for the bottle in the kitchen, "there's only way one of solving this little conundrum..."