On the way home last night, climbing southward on Congress, traffic was particularly slow, so I had plenty of time to study the, shall we say, aggressive bumper stickers on the car in front of me. The most in-your-face was "Practice safe sex. Go f--k yourself." Is that even legal? Isn't there something on the books about public obscenity? Imagine having an eight-year-old in the front seat with you, reading that. And how about this one: "Nice truck. Sorry your penis is so small." Okay, that one was funny. I tried to maneuver my car to a parallel lane to catch a glimpse of the misanthrope inside, with no luck, but I am going to assume it was a male. A male who has suffered a great deal of disappoinment in his life. A male who keeps the world at bay with a force field of hostility and antagonism. A male who -- okay, I'm getting carried away here, but dude, WHAT is your problem?
I thought the cold weather was going to be a catalyst for my night walks -- and it is invigorating, once I actually get started -- but I'm finding that all I want to do when I get home is get into my jammies and settle in for the night. Remember when I went through that phase, several months ago, when I would come home, take a nap, and THEN do my walk? There is no way I could pull myself out of that warm bed at 8:30 or 9:00 pm, like I did over the summer, so that is not even an option. Tonight Banks and I mixed Congress Avenue with the Stacy Park Hills, no music, no clock, and came home EXACTLY 1 1/2 hours later. And here I sit watching "Top Chef," once again pondering the mystery of how such a terrible cook can find so much pleasure in WATCHING what is so stressful to actually DO.
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