My penis suggested what to buy you for your birthday. Again.

It was a gray day for a while: the kind that I always find pleasant enough as a constant reader, conducive to spending hours indoors reading, then taking to the porch for a cigarette in the air now and then.

Was I reading?  No.  I was watching tractor shows and virtual racing, mentally unwilling to commit to the raw attention demands of a good reading session.

But I went to the mailbox.

Almost there, walking down the drive and it was like, Mother May I, God opened the drapes and immediately there was heat on my face and bald coconut.  So bright, but beautiful, and the brilliant crevice above surrounded by dingy fluff.

And today was the Princess Kate's bday, and I was thinking, what could I do, worlds away, to lift her up?  I wound up making some perverted comments, but I tempered that with a genial, general concern for her outlook.  She gets moody on her birthday, and I sympathize.  I always get a weird feeling on my birthday, but not so much moody, or no more moody than normal.

So I was thinking that the bday script must be flipped for Princess Kate and that frown should be given a jolt to shock it into turning upside down.  What other than a selfie taken by my penis?  There are other things, other times and other chances, and the alchemist works at his bench only when the moon is up and he is guarded by ravenous angry wolves.

"Look, Kate.  My penis is yelling at you."

And other things, and other ways along the Gentile diaspora transpire, perspire and strive, some for and some against his and her own wishes.