This morning I will attempt to re-enter the United States of America after a two-week sabbatical.
Ideally, there will be no incidents with the fine folks over at immigration. I'd like to warn the pretty girls who read this that they might get an emergency phone call tomorrow morning by a desperate man pleading, "come marry me quick in the Houston airport." The pretty girls who don't read this ... well, I like to imagine that they'd be surprised. But honestly, after dozens of drunk midnight calls, the novelty has probably worn off.
If all goes well, I should be in Boston by 9 p.m. You've been warned.
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