Sunday, March 13, 2022


When asked why I'm still wearing a mask, my answer is that I don't trust people. I don't trust them enough to want to touch their underwear, so why on earth would I want to share their lung cooties. Now aren't you sorry you asked?

Honestly, I feel more comfortable around a lot of people with a mask on.

A sense of anonymity, perhaps. As well as strange mystery.

With the mask, I look thirty years younger.

Unlike most men nowadays, I shave on a regular basis, around my beard, which I neatly trim religiously. So the mask is not hiding the Miami Vice look nor an "I'm hip and I just stepped out of bed" raggedy scruff which a lot of hipsters have. Clean face, neat beard, fresh underwear, and recent acquaintance with soap, deodorant, toothpaste, comb.

If a person of the opposite gender were to look deep into my eyes, she would not be distracted or dismayed by worrisome grooming failures. Which is just a hypothetical situation, of course, I actually know fair number of women, and none of them have ever indicated that they have an interest on my eyes except for a pleasant young woman in Chinatown with a PHD who prescribed Latanoprost for the left eye and advised me to get stronger reading glasses. I'm seeing her again right around tax time, and then in another four months.

The intraocular pressure seems to be better now.
I have a magnifying glass for small print and Chinese characters in dictionaries, by the way. Unless one can clearly identify strokes and building blocks, the character is meaningless.

The last time I didn't attend to my personal hygiene with the usual rigor was when I was in the hospital after rupturing my appendix. I'm sure you understand why.
Didn't feel up to cleanth for five days.

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