At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
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Thursday, March 29, 2018


Last night at the karaoke bar, several people hesitantly acknowledged that old age is creeping up on them. Falteringly, half-assedly, denialistically.
The "gotta go" crowd. Work tomorrow, act normal and all that.
I do not need to acknowledge that at effing all.
What with being grouchy and stiff.
A throbbing right leg.

"Okay, bitches! I am antique, I smell bad, and the pipe is part of me. Powder, medicated unguents, old-school pipe tobacco. Where ever I go I bring the odeur of a lower-class British living room with grampus in his chair smoking soggy shreds in his battered briar. Mildew! We survived the war!"

Seriously. My leg hurts. And cheap Scotch is a blessing. My apartment mate is a small Cantonese female person, and does not drink alcohol, so she will never understand that. She's also nearly a decade younger than I am, and her cholesterol level is perfect. After every check-up she celebrates with lobster and bacon, melted butter, mayo, and rich creamy sauces.

She is convinced that Scotch is nasty stuff, for deviants only.
She doesn't smoke either. No pipe, no cigar.
That isn't normal.

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