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Lately I've decided I couldn't give less of a shit what sort of pellage is covering it, so long as it's there, and I will never complain for the rest of my life as long as it's been washed at some point in the previous week. Besides, there's something deliciously primal about digging your face into a big mound of bush. oh and lord have mercy, perchance to penetrate
In the dim recesses of my memory I seem to recall vague, minor preferences, but it's sort of like asking a man dying of thirst in the desert staring at an expanse of salt flats what his favorite beverage is, when in fact he would, as my grandfather used to say "drink warm beer through a shitty rag... and like it."
In this absolute drought of female companionship, to have an opinion on this borders on sheer lunacy, flights of fancy like a soviet ironworker hearing about how Americans have 20+ options of which brand of white sandwich bread or toilet paper to buy, when he is lucky if the government-run store still has any by the time he gets to the front of the queue.
I hope you all are ashamed of yourselves. And for your home enjoyment, a cat on a column:
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