As I walked Headlong towards my Age in Normal entries

There’s this park in one of the bazillion townships that purple the eye of the local map. There is a stagnant little pond and a rectangular manmade lake; if you flew in a glider upside down from the east they’d look like an exclamation point. The name of the park is Valhalla, a vibrant, grand name for a sleepy little swath of woods and swamp.

I’ve gone for a stroll there each afternoon for the past few days. That’s where the grandwhelp and I walked last time I saw him. That sounds incredibly sentimental. I expect to see him again, and sure, I’ve got plenty of sentimental bones in my body, but that’s only about twenty percent of the reason I chose that particular walk, or, as it were, I chose to put lipstick on that particular pig.

The most significant reason is the most obvious; I needed to walk. Sure I’ve been resting my knee for most of the week prior, and yeah it hurt like a sons-a-bitching son of a whore, or, well, two whores, though I don’t think sex for money is the salient part of that cuss. It’s harsh, the words are harsh, if daughter of a senator and an upstanding citizen rang as harsh then that’s what my knee would have hurt like. Does hurt like. I don’t suspect sensitivity to pain is any greater or lesser relative to the cost of sexual favors. Senators charge more.

Um, so, yeah, I went with the use it or lose it theory of lay knee therapy. Why not just walk out your front door dawg, you ask. This is not the question and answer portion of this entry, that’d be over at https://www.sonsabitchingsonowhores.com

I’ll answer anyhow; you haven’t been out my front door. I’m a sort of do-everything-at-once kind of guy and if I was going to walk for knee strength I figured I’d dust off the damn near atrophied soul. Jesus, do I really type shit like that?

Valhalla is a drive from here through quaint autumnal countryside. Ok, it’s only autumnal in the fall, but, you know, not the question and answer portion. I really couldn’t think of anywhere else. Three minutes into my hobble walk, a couple came out of the woods and something crashed in the air above them. Neither male nor female were attractive and they were unattractive in a similar way and, more importantly, each had miniature toy snack dogs. Hmmm, they were living creatures but extra small and white about the muzzle.

Each ugly human crashing off trail (true but without seeing this little park you miss how funny it is to consider any part of tame, domestic woodland floor as “off trail”) tiny snack dog nestled in the crook of their respective arms, looking back at the crash with fear and anger, mumbled some polite version of Hi to me, the man remotely unlocked a comparatively handsome black suv and was almost rolling by the time the woman got to the shotgun side. I was looking up in the tree for evidence and also wondering if he shifted the snack dog to his left arm to start the car or whether he was used to starting and driving a car with a snack dog on his ignition arm.

They drove off. There was nothing in the trees or any evidence on the ground. Two minutes later the black SUV was out of sight and any opportunity to answer that singular What The Fuck was gone. What the Fuck isn’t really the right question though. During that twenty minutes of bone grinding, knee crunching strolling through Valhalla at least four other provocative events occurred.

Ok, so the snack dogs fleeing astride two ugly humans is a bit weird, but, still, the problem is mine. I have stories, entries, articles, anecdotes, clippings, flashes and poetry built up in me causing all sorts of pressure, well, the perception of pressure, sort of like the teenage boy who truly believes if he doesn’t get laid his balls will explode (he believes that through his undergrad years too. I’m kidding, I hope. Doesn’t matter, he’s hypothetical, right?). I went to a convenience store and a pharmacy too. Things were far too interesting and provocative. I mean from my POV. I think things were probably same as they ever are. Still weird to see ugly folks crash out of the woods with miniature snack dogs. Sorry. Unattractive. I think that’s objectively true, but, and the point of this entire entry; How Would I Know?