Thursday, June 13, 2024

BRAIN FOG

Far be it from me to bellyache constantly about the weather, but never-the-less. It seems that another heat wave is going to blister the inland areas. Which San Francisco isn't. We are on the coast and have fog. Jolly good. I hate hot weather. It makes my legs ache and moving about difficult. It forces the active man into inactivity. Hyper-active to hyper-inactive.


By the way, the thing about some detective series is that the one who did the dirty deed often had a damned good reason to do so and the readers, or audience, naturally sympathize with the murderer. If it's a good British series, there must be brassieres.
Just a thought. Never mind.

Yesterday's adventures with stacks of stuff to be burrowed through meant that I didn''t even get out of the house, and left several things undone. Speaking of being an active man.

Brassieres are a metaphor.
Clearly.
Honestly, I do not have brassieres on my mind. It's foggy there. The brassieres in question are still hanging in the bathroom. They may not be quite dry yet, but I am not planning to investigate. It's not my business. When a man has a female apartment mate, there will occasionally be feminine undergarments in the fog.

Their humidity level is not my concern.


Instead, I shall go outside for a walk with my pipe, and they will disappear eventually.


I suppose the benefit of a bra is that it protects tender skin areas when one is wearing a scratchy sweater. Such as might be necessary early in the morning when the temperature is low fifties and it's foggy outside. Which might be why there are no women, not even one, taking a walk with their pipes at this hour. Their brassieres are too moist. It's unhealthy.

That doesn't explain the women dogwalkers, though.
Shan't ask about the state of their bras.
Not a single dang word.



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