Sweet smell of your own breath.

There’s a lot of BIG important things going on. No doubt. But NYC in the summer is fucking hooooooot. Steamy. Run down the back rivulets of sweat hot. Yet here I am, pushing my kid’s stroller, happily wearing a mask. Well, accepting of wearing a mask.
A wise man once said, “He hast thou smelled it, has thou thus dealt it.” And we’ve been dealt it.
And now, we must smell.

Smell the coffee tinged scent of our own musty breath, bouncing against our own mask. Our collective facial hair matted with sweat. It’s a small price to pay.

Folks is it that hard? Put the mask on, we’re not storming Normandy. We’re not even storming. This Rorschach test of how big an impolite goof one can be is a good barometer for End Times, I suppose.

Fool Hardy must be written somewhere in the collective DNA of this country. Unbelievably selfish.

But, then again, I bought a lot toilet paper.