This year is flying by . . . at this rate death will catch up with me faster than I can catch up with my ambitions.
Pretty much every month this year has brought something or other into our lives that made the time pass without us noticing. Sometimes it’s good stuff, and sometimes its not-so-good stuff.
As for the calendar, I am recycling a photo from last year. I hope people don’t mind, but I don’t really give a leaf if anyone feels put out. Leaf well enough alone, I almost never say.
These are, of course, leaves from our silver maples, but they are last year’s leaves.
Right-Hand Click anywhere on the pictures, and Choose “Save Link As . . . “.
Note that clicking “Save Image” will download the resampled image (640×954, 72dpi) WordPress created for the post. Suitable for viewing on the screen, but not suitable for printing.
“Save link as” downloads the native size of 11×17, 300dpi, but can be printed smaller. Printing larger may have mixed results depending on how knowledgeable you are.
Of course, saving is not required . . . one can just ignore the post. If you are adventuresome, and it does not work, let me know, and I’ll try to fix whatever WordPress screwed up.
Disclaimers: I do not guarantee accuracy of the calendar. My general understanding of time is limited to it being (mostly) an arbitrary demarcation of the unidirectional flow of existence. Many instances in my life have demonstrated to me the disconnect between any hard measure of intervals of time, and the perception of said time intervals.
We go to the Y every morning. The moment Melisa and I split up (different locker rooms) I slip on my “get-the-fornicate-out-of-my-way-and-stay-there!” look. My normal visage is one that is not conducive to promoting conversation, and when I wear my GTFOOMWAST look I can look positively mean, unfriendly, and best avoided.
It’s always a surprise, then, when strangers start conversations with me, especially when they be all smiles and shi . . . er . . . stuff. My first thought is they are blind, or mentally deficient. My second thought is “Great! Now I have to converse!“
I’m pretty good at conversation, but that does not mean I go out of my way to find it. Why do people want to talk to me? I dunno.
Worse yet, kids usually smile at me, and it takes me by surprise, meaning I smile back, usually before my brain engages and says “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot do you think you are doing?!?” . . . but by then it’s too late.
I then rush to the mirror and check . . . yup; still unfriendly-looking, still old, still foreboding. Kids be nuts!
Remember, you don’t have to use the calendar portion . . . you can cut out the bottom part, and you have a picture to hang on your wall.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ o o o o o o ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Astute persons might have noticed these doodles, and correctly surmised they hold some significance for me, and perhaps for humanity at large.
If you click on the doodle, and nothing happens, this is the link it’s supposed to go to: https://disperser.wordpress.com/2011/12/26/palm-vx-and-i/.
Note: if you are not reading this blog post at Disperser.Wordpress.com, know that it has been copied without permission, and likely is being used by someone with nefarious intention, like attracting you to a malware-infested website. Could be they also torture small mammals.
Please, if you are considering bestowing me recognition beyond commenting below, refrain from doing so. I will decline nominations whereby one blogger bestows an award onto another blogger, or group of bloggers. I appreciate the intent behind it, but I would much prefer a comment thanking me for turning you away from a life of crime, religion, or making you a better person in some other way. That would actually mean something to me.
Should you still nominate me, I will strongly suspect you pulled my name at random, and that you are not, in fact, a reader of my blog. If you wish to know more, please read below.
Note: to those who may click on “like”, or rate the post; if you do not personally hear from me, know that I am sincerely appreciative, and I thank you for noticing what I do.
. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.