Travel is precious, and even more so on foot, don't you think?

So I woke up - and spent most of the day - massively constipated. After I felt the quake and the aftershock, things loosened things up a bit. I remembered the giant rope suspension bridges that my Quechua ancestors had built from scratch (using HEMP fibres, and whilst chewing COCA leaves, I might add), and wondered aloud how they could have survived without resorting to rampant cannibalism -- or worse.

Images of bloodshed, fear and self-soiling flooded my head like a bottomless porta-potty, followed by fond recollections of having unrepentant repeated anonymous sex in same (doubly) portable johns with phantorgasmically gorgeous winsome johnny come latelys.

And so, with ladylikable precision, I amst empowered. I shall become an architext of suspended marijuana bridges between divergent factions and shiftless continents, compleat with dodgy restrooms worthy of magnificent makeshift thrifty strip mall designer discount boutiques, botox salons, and head shoppes.

I would simply caution those who choose another bridge to mind the gap.