I suppose I could complain. You know how that one goes: It’s not the heat. Exhalation is quite moist, which might be one reason for a given social distance.
I am regularly assured no one would listen, as if that passes for humor. Maybe wit. It’s sometimes difficult to tell without the proper emoticon.
Not that I have anything to lament.
Sure, a couple prospects turned up mica, and to admit to being inured with such matters may indicate that such an attitude may leak out in manners that my particular style of blinders keep out of line.
Just a suspicion. Or, it may be my narrow, deep-set eyes.
Or ambiguity, which always reminds me of another word: ambivalence.
So, we’re back to that, are we?
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. And I suspect that should such things be required reading by, oh, say, twelve years of age, we could forego a lot of unnecessary discomfort from trial and error over well-trod ground. Well, for me, anyway.
And then one could make step-by-step combinations, a DIY collection of snippets. For instance, one about hard work, another about extra effort, and balance them out in a parallelism with one about payment and another for patience.
No small wonder, really, this circumlocution just to get a word in edgewise. Here’s one for you: if not prepared to explore an idea, don’t open the floor for discussion.
But I digress, and inasmuch should be looking for an intact bootstrap.
On a marginally related matter, the neighbors bucked and split a wet load in less than three days. Husband and wife. Grown son helped for about two hours stacking.
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