In the shed.
Oh man - just try to get some privacy around this place. You'd think living in a massive old abandoned mill we wouldn't have this kind of problem, but you'd be surprised at how small this place gets when everybody is home. Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, starts rattling his test tubes around and looking for things to detonate. Marvin (my personal assistant) does his exercise routines, rolling around the shop floor on his casters. Matt watches his birds on screens of various sizes. Anti-Lincoln reads the Gettysburg address backwards for the unpteenth time (I think he's trying to make a point). Even the mansized tuber gets in the way. It's mayhem!
So, hey, I've moved out to the potting shed in the courtyard of the Cheney Hammer Mill. It was necessary to evict the mansized tuber, since the shed's only big enough for one of us, but he's resourceful -- I'm sure wherever he lands he'll put down roots. Some people think I'm wood shedding out here, but it's nothing that productive. I'm just enjoying the quietude, the solitude, the ... I don't know ... darkitude. It's like taking that vacation that I never take, to that place I've never been, with money I've never earned. Call it never never land. Or call it anything you want - it's a freaking shed!
Right, so ... if you're looking for me, try the shed. Knock twice if I don't owe you money.
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