Thick August fog rolled in this afternoon, reminding me of my time stocking cans at the local Spartan Store. The dangerous thing about a summer fog is the uncertainty it brings. You can’t get your bearings, don’t know where the driveway ends and the road begins.
Makes you question your decision to purchase three slip n slides and leave em in the box all summer.
It’s little questions that pile up in a fog. Your mind drifts from concerns about deflationary measures taken by the Fed to more immediate concerns. Where are my keys? Did I feed them to a giant pink frog last night? And if so, how did he escape my dreams?
Some questions have answers, though. How many loaves of bread will that local Spartan Store allow you to purchase before getting the sheriff involved? 87.
How many loaves of said bread will fit in your mouth in this kind of humidity? 86.
What becomes of that extra loaf? Using mustard to draw signs of the zodiac on each slice you will later claim was there when you bought it as a way of impressing your dinner guests? Impressing them that you know where to get the really good bread, the kind with all the pretty designs, and they don’t?
Or do you just humble yourself, find the receipt, and take the bread back to the Spartan Store and blame your buying frenzy on this horrible fog?