Whist in the mist

This is what the world looked like today from atop my three speed this morning.  Just to add to the sepia-toned feeling of crossing the bridge in the fog, I passed a man on a bicycle weaving up the incline in a newsboy cap, pinstriped knickers and jacket.  Smoking a cigarette. Must have lungs of iron.  Or will have.  Wackity shmackity doo!

I have received a couple letters.  The major gift givers seem disinclined to favor me this year with any giant novelty checks.  Chagrin!  Damn their calfskin boots and their facial fillers!  I hold out hope that a huge pot of money will fall on my head from the sky.  Oprah says I deserve it!  What?  She said that to you, too?  Despite the hairstyle which adorns your head like a blown out moccasin??? Oh, those are also still *IN* you say.  I went to see my style consigliere this weekend, and am assured that my destiny is well in hand.  Or perhaps trodden underfoot.  I wasn’t really listening.

The next weeks stretch out in front of me like a mouthful of gummi worms.  Work, work, new IUD.  Mildly pleasing, relatively inoffensive.  I have been reading that it is destructive to wonder if one’s life is “good enough”.  Good enough for what?  If you are reading this, let’s face it, your life is good.  At least one of your eyeballs is in your head and you obviously have an excellent vocabulary.  Send the rest of your complaints where they belong, to be muffled in the fog.

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