THE WINGED HOST

We can count this as a reasonably successful afternoon. I got a lot of stuff done, had a lovely lunch, and ended up with a bag of mango gummies. Life is good when there are mango gummies. Tea and a snack at a familiar place, followed by a long walk with a pipe.

Walking is a pain in the gand. But I need to do it.
Don't want the right leg becoming totally useless.
My left calf feels like it's was hit with a hot iron, and the burning pain is being efficiently communicated to adjacent areas like the thigh, hip, ankle, gluteus maximus and minimus, and the ball of the foot. So we know the nerves are working well. Overtime, in fact.
A man needs nerves in order to function properly.
Nerves of red hot flaming iron.
Dammit.

Anyhow, tea time was nice. A piece of lemon Swiss roll cake (檸檬瑞士卷 'ning mung seui si kuen'), hot milk tea, and a cup of regular tea. This time the evil old granny who snagged the last three pieces of that Swiss roll was not about, as she was twelve weeks ago.
So I won. Delicious! And I'm gloating.


Didn't even mind the Caucasian office dude-bros without masks happily spreading Covid on the bus back. As they blithely do. Because they do not care. The biggest disease vectors in the world are young white yuppies, second only to tourists. Antibiotic resistant syphilis, date rape drugs, alcohol poisoning, random thuggery, Republicanism, and Covid 19.
An entire Embarcadero law office cluster.

You know, if you do not wear a mask, the zombies will get you.
They can smell your foul Chipotle burrito breath.

What you probably weren't aware of, when you moved here from the chumbucket states, was that we have an army of dead seagull hopping zombies, who wish to rip out your livers and your Amex platinum cards. Hop. Hop. Hop.


Damn' my leg.



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