Facebook gave me an opportunity to change the “old look” to the new. I took them up on it. I loathed the new look. I wasn’t crazy about the old one, either, but the new look reminded me of the great, great grandchildren of self-absorbed millenials. So I went back to the original look. Uninspired, fundamentally ugly. But I was used to it. Ach! I hate the idea that I might be devolving into a problematic geezer whose primary measures of quality depend on “the way it used to be.” I’d rather slash my wrists. (Though, in all honesty, I’ve never done that; I can’t actually say I’d rather do that. I don’t even want to try. So let’s leave it at that.)
Yet I brand myself an adventurer. Or something like it. I am willing to thrust myself into new experiences. And, I usually enjoy them. But the idea of some new experiences does not appeal to me. Until I actually experience them. So maybe I’d like the sensation of a knife slicing into my jugular vein; but I doubt it. Seriously. I’m almost certain that would not appeal to me in the least.
It’s only 6:02 and I’m drinking a gin & tonic. That’s a sign, I think, of deviance. But I am, deep in my heart, a deviant. I enjoy fantasies in which…wait, I better not go there, for fear of being disallowed entry into the home of good friends and others. But, in spite of my geezerhood, I have a rather active imagination. Some of the people who occupy real estate in there might be appalled. Or they might be enthralled. Who knows? One day, I may reveal the vivid, active, exceptionally expressive fantasy life that goes on inside my head. I should probably wait until I’m on my death bed, though, lest things get a little awkward. I love making people a little uncomfortable; have you noticed? I have no idea, actually, whether my dream-world would make others uncomfortable; others may well have the same dreams! Who knows? I don’t.
A nice neck massage would be perfect about now. Something to wrest the anxieties and the worries from my aching muscles. I doubt I can arrange for that, though, at this hour. So I won’t even try. But I can say with certainty that I want a massage. Actually, I may not just want one, I may knead a massage. Am I cute, or what? Of course I am, in spite of my belly fat and a face that seems bent always into a perpetual snarl. I’m actually happier than I look. But cute? Yeah, probably not.
Enough of this. It’s time to go finish cooking the pasta and making the sauce. I’m sure the meal will be delightful. It always is.