knox snooze

Succotash my Balzac, dipshiitake.

On being that guy

It's finally hot here. Hot like tamales in a Mexican prison. Hot with a capital H and possible two t's. Real. Damn. Hot.

And thus I have become 'that guy' in my building. I ride my bike to work before 7 a.m., but by then it's already over 80 degrees, and since my entire route is along a slow brown river, the humidity is huge too. So I sweat. Because it's hot; because it's humid; because I'm riding my bike; because, in short, I am not a slim man.

When I get to work, I drip my way to the bathroom and take the stall (which is thankfully available at that hour). I change clothes here. By "change clothes" of course, I mean that I remove what I wore on my way in with a putty knife, desperately dab at the insane amounts of sweat on my body with a hand towel, and put on clothes that are jammed into the bottom of a duffel bag. These clothes are clean, but only for an instant.

So there I am, the dude with sweat dripping out of his mangy beard, drenched t-shirt and shorts slapped over the stall door, and a large dark arrow of damp polo shirt on his back that points right at the motherlode of sweat - his ass.

I smell like a moldy granola bar that was smuggled across a swamp in a hippie's armpit. Try not to fall in love with me.
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