I will not do laundry today. Because I don't feel like it. I washed my underwear recently and have enough April fresh stuff to last another week. If it rains then, I will stink. By eleven in the morning the air is grey anyhow, and no one in Marin will notice. That's four days a week.
The persistent odour of tobacco smoke malforms all senses.
And I am a stubborn old grumpus.
Deal with it.
"His stubborness is like a thick layer of stiffened crisco and sugar icing over the unappetizing Safeway sheet cake that is his Asperger syndrome."
I am more socially adept than some. My subjects easily change, and the thought-processes do not go into automatic pilot. Bomber pilot.
Though last night I did, as usual, drone on and on and on.
I am not your father, I do not have all the answers.
But I do have some mighty fine theories.
In a few of which I am vested.
Unless informed otherwise, assume neurotic retention.
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2 comments:
Unless informed otherwise informed, I shall assume an aminal-like smell. Barely improved by a lingering reek of tobacco.
Try that the other way around; a heavenly aroma of resinous leaves, barely lessened by an attractive feral cologne.
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