I've known some odd people in my life: while boasting about her superior knowledge to a person her daughter's age, a gentle creature insisted to him that the vacuum must do it's thing without any priming.
Or perhaps I misunderstood her detestation of the word suck; perhaps she wasn't talking about a syphon.
I don't rave over new technology--it annoys me I need to state this as often as I do--and I try to be gentle with friends who are still willingly swallowing yarns.
Friendly souls of that description, who on a few occasions shared something that's similar to a hookah but doesn't rhyme with it, and, I might add, primed my enjoyment of fleshing out an explanation, talked to me about pumps as if they were revolutionary. To this I can but state, from a piece or two of experience and a lot of research, that there's no difference in reliability between the old and the new: I don't argue that the efficiency of pumps is a yarn, because it isn't (efficiency, at least, is one aspect of this shit-show called new technology that people are still being scientific about).
I'd certainly rather spend time on a bike, no matter how the fuel gets into the combustion chamber, than with a woman whose attitude sucks. Daughters of such women choosing to call me a stalker because, after all, they had in spirit married someone who turned out to be a layabout, and in my exuberance of finding myself in one piece after all these years, which I certainly didn't achieve on my own, I had to tell these girls, who thought they were good witches, that they wouldn't know culture if it crawled up their arse.
But, then, it does help to tell a person that you're retracting your marriage proposal. It also helps to scour your memory to see if, drunk or sober, you've made any which could be answered unexpectedly. Borrowing from an American sitcom that was on the air before my dad was born: "when we were first married my husband wanted to keep it a secret but it didn't work. I found out right away."
Not to give unmitigated praise to things which also have their dark side, this is certainly preferable to similar situations found in old English literature, which cast light into the darkest crevices of English history.
Before we had thought of marriage we were worried with the idea that, try as we might, we'd end up joining the divorcee club.
Now that I've gate crashed this, leashed to a pair of hell-hounds called the Church and the State, I've stopped facing in any particular direction.
Childlike Empresses are far better than dreaming boys when it comes to naming things; which fact I leave for those who do not yet comprehend why she would want to hear the name that came to his mind when he first saw her.
I'm making guesses about Momo. I offer that story for those who might wonder why I had such strong opinions on career women before I had literally registered to vote, and insisted that this be a matter for discussion before getting to the messy business of holding hands.
I feel like the cigars I've smoked, in my time of being one, are not yet fully digested. I don't like to waste what I've spent hours creating, but I must omit the mention of food on this revision, which can't be ultimate because that would require me to set it in stone, or at least print it (because everyone knows that fixed records in computer storage are the most difficult thing to achieve); as far as revisions go, then, I think it's pretty penultimate.
Anyone who thinks this ramble has nothing to do with the title or filename, or takes exception to my revision process, can wherewithall themselves.