you are my home

let me tell you faith...
not only can your man
tell the difference between
Miles and Coltrane
and point Bhutan out on a map...

he can also do normal man type things
you know basic plumbing, electrical
and mechanical things.
what Im saying is, we could go to the
symphony dressed to the nines,
and on the way home I could easily fix
our broken vehicle with your panty-hose
and my left cuff-link.

what I cannot do...apparently...is change
the main relay in a late model Honda Accord
with a mad german scientist as an assistant.

I am, as I type, covered in all kinds of automotive
liquids...the kinds of oily blood and bile that flow
freely when one sticks a screwdriver where one should not.

The best part is, Im not certain I have time to clean up...
so I may just have to hop on the plane as I am.

the plane.
yes.
in lightly less than 8 hours I will be winging
my way in the right direction.

this will be the last thing you have to read
until our airport rendezvous.

know that only G-d and Bono could stop
me from stepping off that plane in Munich tomorrow.

I love you.

now if you'll excuse me,
I have to finish shaving my head.