The rain comes in on giant, hippopotamus feet. I refuse, however, to talk any more about the rain. If I ignore it maybe it will leave.
I don't think we're going to be friends, sir. You have an engaging nature, there can be no doubt, but we have certain incompatibilities. I write software for a living. You are wearing a bright orange golf shirt and pea green Dockers. I like to write and draw and read and talk. You are wearing a bright orange golf shirt and pea green Dockers. I'm a family man. You are wearing a bright orange golf shirt and pea green Dockers. I could go on, but what's the point? Surely you can, by now, see that the chasms between us cannot be bridged.
It's not that I'm a jerk, it's just that I have trouble seeing people that are standing right in front of me because my mind is somewhere else. I'm not antisocial, I'm just preoccupied. I like people, I really do. I just don't like small talk. Plus, you are wearing a bright orange golf shirt and pea green Dockers.
What's that you say? Yes, you're correct. It is, in fact, raining again, but I've already decided not to talk about that. I'm boycotting the weather.
And, with that, he was gone, bouncing away into the morning like a scoop of orange sherbet on some sort of disgusting, vegetarian spinach cone or something. Wrong. Just wrong.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
