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.













