Birds of a Feather.
I like candy when it is wrapped in a sweater. Against all odds, Bow Wow Wow is on the radio. Now, it is Boy George singing Karma Chameleon. No one knows what I am talking about except some old-timer sitting in the corner with his china doll of a daughter. I doubt she is a geisha.
The old-timer and I both agree that 1983 was a very good year. Were you alive then?
Today is a perfect New Orleans day, mesh and lace.
Language is a virus from outer space. I don’t know why someone would want that phrase tattooed on their arm, but, who am I to judge? The lady decided to not have William S. Burroughs, who said that, tattooed on her arm, giving credit where credit is due. Plagiarism.
Now I am listening to Adam Ant. Goody Two Shoes. I whistle along reflexively without a care in the world. I wish I could find someone to dance with. I don’t think the old-timer’s daughter knows this song.
Heather is here. I am already unfocused. She is going to drive me nuts. She is going through the Wall Street Journal telling me what articles she would read or not. She is driving me nuts. She is wearing a very nice bright yellow dress.
I wish I had some earbuds.
Heather just complimented me on my new pink tee shirt. Everybody is bright today.
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I’m gonna drop the paywall here. If you were a paid subscriber, you would see a photo after this. And, as Paul Harvey would say, you would hear “the rest of the story.” It is a real thriller-diller, let me tell you.
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