Last night my apartment mate made a stewed lamb shank. The aroma filled the building. Her door was ajar, and in her room there is a charming little she-sheep, the able assistant to Ms. Bruin, who is the head roomie.
In my room, Snidely resides. He is the head sheep.
There are many animals here.
Some are sheep.
All of these creatures have very acute senses! They hear me when I call the little black kitty a bitch. Because she wishes to eat the little girl hamster.
This morning I was on the front steps in my bathrobe, shivering my balls off, because the discreet fragrance of a cheroot upsets them.
They can't smell cooking mutton?!?
I am oppressed!
AFTERWORD
The title of this essay is the way I explained to her how the Gabor sisters maintained the skin tone of their necks, when at an age when most other women have wrinkled leathery wattles there.
It made complete sense.
At the time.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
BREATHING SPACES
Who doesn't like dumplings? And sometimes on just needs dumplings before walking with a pencil shank GBD Virgin lovatt filled with a fin...
No comments:
Post a Comment