California? Should be good. If only they still welcomed wide-eyed panhandlers I'd probably do the same.
A sunny morning in Cottonopolis, which made things a little more bearable. Hardly California, but less of the oppressive monochrome vibes that characterise the city for probably three-hundred and sixty days of the year.
I was walking along, minding my own misanthropic business in the shadow of a viaduct when I was confronted with the sight of an attractive woman with bright red hair wearing some kind of high-vis clothing. As in workwear, not those horrible day-glo tights. Even the garish shade of orange couldn't obscure the fact that she looked really good.
All fine and dandy, you might say. Yet I can't get over the fact that such a clichéd drag fantasy was allowed to invade my morning musings on the shit-stained sewer that is humanity's collective consciousness. It was better when I was drinking and my libido would only surface through the murk from time-to-time in order to come up for air before catching a blast of said air, deciding it smelled foul and diving back into the murk to enjoy the company of my other demons.
Can't allow this to happen. If it's left to its own devices it may even make me go out and try to get laid. Even worse; if it's a full moon and the nutters are out I might succeed. This may not sound paricularly serious or even important, and probably isn't to anyone other than myself. Believe me though, wars have been started as a result of such mangled ghost trains of thought...
Oh, and verbose navel-gazing good morning one and all.