The Lad’s motorcycle has a little bathrobe which he keeps chained to a post when not in use so that it cannot run away. It fits snug over the motorbike and in its bathrobe the motorbike looks like a little cartoon viking guy. It is so endearing. This bathrobe is for keeping the wet off. When the wet is on you slide around and cannot brace yourself when you are approaching stoplights so as not to slide into the back of the Lad and give him, he says, carpal tunnel from supporting your very light, don’t get me wrong, sweetie weight all on his wrists like that.
Isn’t it great how there is a tunnel in the wrist? Turn your lights on, I always think!
This one is not a lie because I haven’t thought up any stories lately, but have been thinking mostly about death again. Death, the big nuh-uh. It is awfully dull and does not bear repeating.
Well, here is an email I might write today.
Apparently many people are afraid of me. It is widely reported. Due to how I am intimidating. Mostly the Lad, who is not afraid of me and should be, tells me this, but he likes to say I am mysterious because he knows it makes me feel better.
The sad fact is, though, that I am like a deaf person trying to speak. I can see how other people behave in a friendly, warm, normal way, and I try to emulate it, but everyone finds me out right away. Mostly I think people assume I don’t like them. This I guess is the effect of teaching oneself to walk with one’s hands held out from the thighs, and being too shy to speak in company, and glaring out from beneath enough eyebrow for two people or three movie stars. I think the only solution is to bring potato salad everywhere as a peace offering, since who can be afraid of someone bringing them potato salad? I eat like an American. It’s a gift from God.