THIS TAKES YEARS OF TRAINING!

My apartment mate is staying home today, as she does not feel well. Now, being a logical sort, for me the evidence points to a recurrence of the menses. As happens every four weeks or so. It's one of the more obvious benefits of having a woman living in the other room. One gets exposed to many things that fratboys would rather not think about.
No, I shall not explain what the menses is.
I've done that before.

I myself am not feeling particularly well either, but it has naught to do with body fluids or delicate female tissues. More of a case of being whacked out of my gills on coffee last night, which necessitated roaming around Nob Hill after midnight with a pipe and a jovial attitude. You see, I had had about four hours sleep Thursday night, maybe five hours on Friday night, and another four and half Saturday night. The wisest choices were NOT made, and error was compounded by a surfeit of coffee upon coming home yesterday.
Everyone relaxes with coffee after work, it's normal.
It wakes you up while calming you down.
Just ask Mrs. Olson.


My apartment mate woke up an hour ago, and is now watching real crime television while typing e-mails. She likes murders, especially if they've been committed by a woman.


"I shot him out of self-defense; he had a knife!"


This is the kind of thing that perks her up. She often feels that the person under discussion should A) have grabbed the gun earlier; and B) should be declared a long-suffering saint.

Wisely, I keep my mouth shut at those times.

I almost never watch tv.


"The title of beauty queen ALWAYS goes to some dingy blonde with normal eye-balls!"


What this means is that the lop-eyed brunette never gets it. Neither does the zesty red-head with smaller than average tits, or the talented short woman who graduated summa cum laude. No normal women qualify.
Hatched-faced blondes, however, lead a charmed life.

The problem with being high as a kite on coffee when operating on not enough sleep is that you end up even more exhausted than you can understand at the time. Finally got to bed after three o'clock, had weird dreams till late morning (mostly involving monkeys and little kitties demanding lobster mousse), and woke up dithery and abstracted.

This, obviously, isn't going to be the most productive day off.

I really should be doing laundry, it's long overdue.

Instead, I will just pong a bit.


The advantage of being a pipe-smoker is that I can disguise my mild unacceptability with the marvelous fragrances of fine flue-cured leaf, resinous Turk, and fine tarry Latakia. Exotic, and mysterious.
Must avoid Perique, though; too sweat-socky.
No Burley either, obviously.

Fortunately, my nether garments are spotlessly clean.
I always make one hundred percent sure of that.
Just in case I get hit by a speeding car.
No need to shock witnesses.
Or E.R. staff.

It's a question of priorities.
I was raised right.




Can't smoke my pipe in the apartment, though. She's staying home, which means I need to roam around Nob Hill and Chinatown for several hours.
I shall need coffee for that. Plenty of hot coffee.
Or maybe milk-tea and a snackipoo.




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