You buried me right where I belonged and still I'm waiting there
How I have been doing this long weekend is not very well, in ways generically and specifically disheartening, but it has interested me to discover that while I have to do it by hand with pencil and paper, as if it's muscle memory rather than mental recall, I can still scan classical Greek sufficient to fake a Homeric epithet for our Hestia, slayer of towels: μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ τέκνου Ἥρας μακτροφόνοιο. (She sang to us earlier this evening of her triumph over the roll we were still using.) The attentive reader may note that I am relying heavily on both Attic and epic correption and an eighth-century audience would think I didn't know my theogony, but it makes me feel better.

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So thoughtful!
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She does care. She is a Good Cat.
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Hestia is indeed a cat. And she has it in for paper towels.
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*hugs*
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*hugs*
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I am glad at least you have a Homeric goddess to protect you from towels.
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It's not like a three-day weekend is meaningful to me, but it was still unnecessary, you know?
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I am glad at least you have a Homeric goddess to protect you from towels.
Thank you. Our sharp-clawed defender of the hearth.
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Yes. They did.
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Thank you!
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"Sing, goddess, of the wrath of the towel-slaying child of Hera."