Kind of a shaky line quality to this that I like, but it wasn't intentional. I had temporarily lost my glasses, couldn't find them in any of the usual places, like on the bridge of my nose, which is where they usually are when I can't find them, being as how I'm well into my ten-year plan to become a doddering oldster. It's going well, it's going well. Anyways, after a while my glasses decided they had had enough of sweet freedom, which, as we all learn, comes with a price. In my glasses' case, that price being untoward advances by a pair of Ray-Bans in the hotel bar, using crude pickup lines such as "are you bifocal?" My poor little glasses, being rather naive in such matters, fogged over and fled the room in an unsuspecting young lady's purse. Well, who would suspect such a thing? Being unsuspecting of the possibility that a pair of glasses would jump into your purse would be a sure sign of good mental health, in my book. And yet, it happened. Just shows you how useful good mental health is, doesn't it? Long story short, I was reunited with my glasses, which I have named Hermione, by the way, but only when I'm wearing them. When they're off, I call them Gerald, since I suspect they're transgendered. I figure it doesn't hurt to suspect crazy stuff, so you'll be prepared for any eventuality, which I realize contradicts what I've just been saying, but I have always just had a passing acquaintance with good mental health. We nod at each other as we pass on the sidewalk in front of Hardee's and then each make dsgusted faces when we're safely past. Okay, I guess I broke out the Friday vodka a little early. Sue me.

Larger version here. Of the picture, not the type.