Sometimes You Need A Quickie

I know I said I was going to be gone. I lied. I feel terrible about it, but when you look as good as I do in a red microfiber shirt, self-flagellation exudes a pretentious and simulated humility.

Microfiber has a purpose in this correspondence, though a small one.

I needed some pants suitable for physical training. The shorts just don't cut it here in my neck of the woods after September, and my knees are battered enough that cold can be a problem. All Sports Turbo Seven eXtreme Warehouse, or whatever ridiculous name they go by, had the best selection of jogging suits. I needed something simple and, above all, inexpensive. As it turned out, I had no real shopping to do, as my size is always the first one to be snatched away by greedy hordes of terribly ordinary men.

All preamble aside, if you see a man with no hair, striking features framed by the slanting evening sun of the high desert, sweat dripping and sheening in ways that awake parts of female neuro-centers and hormonal distributaries laid dormant by a generation of men who prefer tanning salons and designer jeans, you should not laugh at the fact that he is dressed as if the Bolshevik Revolution vomited upon him.

More to the point, don't laugh at his huffing and puffing from a year of lazy, civilian living.

Honestly, I usually write these correspondences for strangers and acquaintances and friends as a warm up to more productive writing, and as I enjoy outlandish goals I have no intention of keeping, I have a book to write before January.

That last sentence was very complicated. I might just need to go pour myself a glass of something cold, brown, and toxic. On that note, I'll start being productive.