I've always been minded to write a post about balance. But it'd be too judgmental. It'd be based on my twisted sense of balance.
So I won't write about that.
Anyway, I'm a bit high. I couldn't figure out exactly how to spell inebriated only to discover its my phone dictionary which didn't know better.
I'm easy to please. So its with shock that I confess I'm bored. Old people tend to bore me, old white ones even more.
So a strategic retreat, without the house owner's consent, n how to do it with a few well trained dogs in the vicinity.
Alas, I need to stop typing before I say something regrettable. But then again the risk is minimal, I don't happen to have a lot to say when I'm high. Seems my synapses fire as usual even with alcohol, save for locomotion.
I crave my bed. I feel hard pressed to add that its not the specifications that count, rather the fact of ownership. Credit to Martin for pointing out former ambiguities.
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