No one in town will rent me a backhoe. I suppose now I'll be forced to remember the details of my plans.
It strikes me that with a backhoe and a packing crate of Spam I could, perhaps, forgo the parts of the plan that I don't remember.
fuck fuck fuck fuck motherfucking fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck . Fuck. I can't remember a damn thing. It was perfect, too. Elaborate, but not so complicated as to collapse under its own weight.
I can't fault my paranoia, though. This is not the sort of thing that should be written down. Too much evidence.
Damn. Must re-create it.