I forget how utterly strange I am, then something stupid brings it all back. Take this shirt I just found hanging in the back of my closet. It’s from Mancuso Harley in Houston. We used to drop bucks in there for parts, so decided to get a couple of t-shirts. I fell in love with this one and bought it.
It didn’t fit me when I bought it in 1996, and still doesn’t. Yet here it is hanging in my closet, like in the back of my mind I think someday my breasticles will magically deflate and the thing will fit like it was made for me.
Oh, yeah. That’s just nuts.
Arthur and I used to ride; he had a Harley and I… I was relegated to an ancient little Honda we picked up for a grand; but oh, it was fun. Gradually I started riding the Harley until Artie upgraded it from an 883 to a 1200, then it was just… dangerous. For me, anyway. I liked to hotdog and one day, unused to the new power, almost kissed the asphalt. Hard to believe that was only 10 years ago.
My breasticles are the first things to go when I lose weight. At first I’m sad and then I remember: I hate them! I mean, not hate so much that I don’t want them. But they’re a hassle, yes?