It is in the 70s this afternoon in North Texas. The Tandy Hills were dried out enough from last Friday's deluge and the weekend freak snowstorm, to be nicely hiked today.
I had no choice but to ignore Twister's advisement to not appear in public shirtless until I had liposuction or some other procedure, the details of which I'm forgetting, but it was hot, I was overheating, I needed minimalist attire.
If I remember right, Twister also advised that one of the reasons I overheat so easily is likely due to all that extra heft I pack around. I refuse to go on a diet. I'm okay with being a Big Ol' Fat Texas Boy.
My therapist, Dr. L.C., was full of therapy today. Apparently I constantly have a very mad look about me that is quite scary. Dr. L.C. also complained about my feeding schedule, saying I eat lunch too late for someone who gets up so early. Without saying so directly, it's clear to me that Dr. L.C. agrees with Twister that I need to do a lot of push-ups to get rid of my disgusting flabbiness.
All this therapy is really starting to hurt my delicate feelings.
And then, for no reason fathomable to me, Elsie Hotpepper claimed I implied she was that word that starts with a 'B' and rhymes with rich. Or itch. Or witch. Or snitch. Or, well, you get the idea.
I was seriously offput by Elsie's erroneous slander. I may have thought such a thing to myself, maybe, but the thought surely never rose to the level of me implying, in anyway noticeable, that I thought such a thing.