A rental car full of sweaty Irishmen with small thighs and MacBooks
Apology to the girl on School Street yesterday, I didn’t mean to stare. But all I could think was, “Wow, you could fit a rotisserie chicken between your thighs.” What it must be like to not hear a whooshing sound when you walk due to skin-rubbage.
On NPR this AM – “Never in the history of the world has anyone ever washed a rental car. People only care about what they own.” I like that quote.
It defeats the purpose of the action when you first mop up the puddle of sweat and then use the same towel to “wipe down” the stairclimber.
A guy asked me to watch his baby [MacBook] at a coffeehouse while he went to the rest room. Airport security warnings pinged around in my head, and “Oh god, I hope there’s not a bomb in it” was my immediate reaction. I miss the days when I’d just look up and smile, feeling good that I had the look of someone trustworthy and enough muscle to fend off any would-be baby-stealers.
I’ve had deck-building Irishmen working outside my bedroom for the past week. Much like I think pretty girls can and do use their looks to advance in the world, so it goes with British-accented men. They could pop their head in my window and ask to use my toothbrush to spread their tar and I’d say yes. Irish-brogue. Mmmmmmmmmm.
I’m really happy. I usually gripe and judge here. So just wanted to write that.