IT'S NOT ME, IT'S YOU

Skin texture is VERY important. This was the thought in my mind when leaving the karaoke bar last night. I had pipe and tobacco -- the briar was a piss-elegant exemplar of Italian make, the tobacco was English but made in Denmark -- and I had watched puffy boy sing. That being a man with the body of a youthful computer programmer who spends his entire life doing code, never sees the sun, and doesn't eat sensibly.
Puffy boy has an impressive range.
And never says "hi".

He looks pink and velvety. Women will probably wish to hug him.
Possibly even cuddle. Or lick.

Honestly, I do not understand women. Some individual ones, yes.
The genus, no.



I think I look dashing, romantic, and dangerous with a pipe in my mouth, but the only people who remarked on it -- and do please remember that it was a piss-elegant pipe, hot and geshmak -- were two passing street people and a few dissolute young men.

Not a single sniff from the distaff side.

On the other hand, one does not go out with chance-met acquaintances from a drinking establishment anyway.

It just isn't done by sensible people.

No matter how pretty their pipe is.


Sensible people do not have conversations with imaginary interlocutors on the way home either. Mostly involving the very nice hunk of firm cheese awaiting my return, and once the pipe was finished.
Still, those are the safest dates.


We are entirely out of crackers.
Not even Melba toast.
It is sad.




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