For the sake of this blog, I'll assume you know what a Brat is. Not the running, screaming, give-me-my-bloody-toy-mommy-or-I'll-throw-a-tantrum brat, rather, a Bratwurst. German sausage bigger than a hot dog and far better. And you'll remember, Johnson, my exhibitionist neighbor who vacuums in the nude for the benefit of those with windows facing his across the courtyard.
Johnson opens the window to vacuum in the summertime. This is a new tidbit I hadn't known before. And he sings. Quite well, actually. I knew he sang before because his mouth is always moving, but seeing and hearing are quite different things, aren't they? Do you know what else I've discovered about Johnson's Brat and his vacuum? I'm fairly certain you don't. I'll tell you he enjoys fresh air and the stretch hose attachment. Either I'm not so observant as I thought, or he's escalating his affection for cleanliness.
Other shit: Finally able to shave my legs and wear skirts again. You have no idea the joy that brings me. I find myself reaching down to touch my legs, so happy to find them bare again. Which might not be such a terrible thing, I suppose, if D (remember luscious D? My wank-boss' boss?) had not happened to stop at my desk while I was in mid-stroke, a smile of bliss on my face (sunburned, freshly shaved legs itch. Feels fantastic to rub them. I shouldn't have to explain myself), and look up to see him looking straight down my open neck-collar.
He's still luscious. I'm freshly annoyed.
Note to self: "Mia, buy a plastic back scratcher to re-purpose for legs. Will allow you to remain upright and groan your bliss without Roving Eye Movements down your shirt."