Perhaps this blogger should not leave the house.
The strain might prematurely age him.
Or spark another world war.
Let's face it, I spend so much effort on being courteous and informative to people at work (and putting up with cigar-smoking Trumpites and their inane repetitive sports and politics related rantings) that I really have very few fudges left to give. I must conserve them. Those fudges.
I could list all the types of people with whom I have grown fed-up over the years, but that, too, would be repetitive ranting. And you, dear eccentric person reading this, might get bored, and certainly find it dreary.
I like animals. Provided that they are not too large. Unlike my apartment mate, who voices for the stuffed creatures we share, I get along well with live ones, of which there are probably many more in my life than in hers, although for all I know she may associate with whole flocks of riotously personable wild beasts now that she's split with her lover.
I seriously doubt that he liked animals.
Her teddy bear hated him.
The teddy bear and I have a relationship based on mutual respect. She's my apartment mate's oldest friend in the world, and frequently the voice of sanity and reason in this household. And she seems to think that I am, for the most part, a fairly decent chap.
Other than going over to Chinatown for some noodles later, I should spend most of the day with the fuzzy critters, in between going outside for walkies smoking my pipe.
And lots of tea; several of the fuzzies like tea.
They'll be wired when she returns home.
Not my problem. I treat them well.
Rambunctious caffeine freaks.
You know, I wasn't expecting to hit grumpy middle age so soon.
I was hoping to stay thirty for several more years!
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