It occurred to me when I praised someone for having a great hair day that those with no hair are basically status normal or it's shit. If you're balding then you're balding; there's no magical way to make that better; even a high polish would be met with suspicion not praise ("Why can I see me on your head?").The good hair people, or people with hair, get to have those good days—and bad, but their bad is never as bad as balding.Unless their hair catches fire.
Articles from Harrangue Man
The wiki for cabin fever suggests riposte by engaging with nature where able so I had set forth on my electric pushie to enjoy being outside and still at least six feet from any other person.Here's the thing about balls; they age. They age and they keep descending like a pendulum on a broken grandfather clock.
There was a change over the past two days; social distancing is now embedded. A jogger ran a wide berth around my bike. There are less people out.I dropped my chain going into scrub to avoid someone who was already off the path; I had to glide home.The grass is long, like post-civ long, and the feathery tendrils droop over the path to brush your legs as you glide down.People trapped at home are clearly doing some jobs.
I sleep alone due to night terrors so it's a rare event for me to roll over, open my eyes and see another's face staring at mine, let alone that face being Hitler's.I have a dodgy copy of Mein Kampf given to me at Xmas. We were without good wifi and so I read about two thirds of it, the cover bent back.
I went riding in my short shorts—only as a fat, bearded and balding middle-aged man that was not sexy; it's sordid. On that ride in the short shorts I initially went along the pathways presuming that people I'd meet would step off the path six feet for social distance to allow me to speed through. No. That did not happen. Not once. It was as if this COVID shit wasn't happening. I later read an article that said even if you speed through a sneeze cloud it's still going to get on you.
I know what you're thinking; it's Nick Nolte. It's not; it's an actual dinosaur flying a helicopter. A brontosaurus I think. Its co-pilot is a partially decayed green tomato. Unless the tomato is the pilot and the brontosaurus is the co-pilot. That should be a saying; "a brontosaurus is my co-pilot."Though that's only applicable if you're a partially decayed green tomato.That's the sort of high-quality social distance smack you can expect to come from me in this diary of a plague year.
In Community there's an ep where Troy confronts Abed over having his own adventures. It's the same with my tummy.As a short fat man I am the classic apple shape and it's not appealing. One of the aggravating aspects is your gut gets in the way.
Like many Oz kids of the '80s I watched and adored ET: the Extra-Terrestial; I'd have taken a bullet for that little guy. But I call bullshit on the ease of pedaling him about blanket swaddled in the front basket of a pushie.I'd gone on a shop and slotted the spoils in the back box on the bike which instantly tilted like a giant bucket at a water park and dropped my freezer bag of naughty on the ground.
"It" was my composure and it was lost about thee seconds after the lift doors closed on a mission to break from the stress of what I had just done to go get a Diet Coke. I cried all the way from the basement lift, to the vending machine, and all the way back to the lift and managed to stop as I closed in on the office; just red-rimmed swollen eyes to give the game away.I stayed the rest of the day.I'm always amazed when I have an acute existential crisis that can drive me to gibbering tears a
I have a habit of reading emails I have sent and it was then I discovered I'd spelled a word correctly but used it not so; a me instead of my. So the sentence ended with "... call me mobile" which is how a pirate would have ended it. A pirate. I sounded like a fucking pirate. But then, later that day, me mobile did ring and I answers it for a promise of booty to come.So some days are just piratical.Arr.