My internet connection is sucking the lifeblood out of me. It almost makes me yearn for the days of dial-up. Hillmomba is located smack dab in the middle of nowhere. We are unable to get cable. We are even outside the confines of HughesNet, the service that sings its high-speed praises for rural customers. We are so far out that the deep-space salvage crew who rescued Ripley and Jonesy after they jettisoned themselves from the Nostromo would still be light-years away from us.
Currently, I am using a Sprint connect-card dealybobber. It works well most days. Today is not most days.
A Pony Express rider could gallop across the continent on multiple mounts, put his feet up and eat a plate of beans while waiting for a palsied septuagenarian to inscribe my daily dose of angst onto parchment with a turkey quill and elderberry ink, court a widow-woman and propose marriage, and still deliver the finished post ahead of the page-load from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's New Delly.
I give up.