It’s raining in the nation’s capital and I had to go outside. Dressed in my underpants shorts, boxers made of cotton with an elasticised waist which are pulled high, I didn’t want to arse about for a shirt since I want to go back to sleep.
But I put on a hat.
You don’t think about balding until it happens to you and my appearance is already a flesh ruin so it neither adds nor detracts but missing hair up there is irritating in the rain; the steady pound of God tears is an uncomfortable wet sensation like when you’re not sure if you’ve cum or not.
Pitter patter is somnolent bliss, and with being snug as it pours is basically the nicest predicate for return to snooze as you can get.
But that heady glow is robbed if just before you let your pink defenceless first responder to soak with the irrits of it having happened twixt prickly nasty echo sensation on your misted scalp.
Being bald is balls which is added hilarity given a bald head looks like a ball.
Fuck you, hair loss, and my retort is a reverse hats off.