Re-living the interactions of his day, Edgar said, “Welcome to another episode of Psychotic Theatre. Oh dear.” Tycho’s green eyes looked up at him. “Marmow?” the kitty said, in his dear Egyptian Mau accent. “Oh, Tycho baby kitty I love you. Tell me, is the chic Evil Cool I think I am emitting actually reading as Tired and Crabby? Do I need to giggle and fait les yeux doux like a prostitute to let others know my intensity is not meant as a threat?,” Edgar sighed and fretted.
A handsome young father (oblivious that his nylon shorts revealed glorious endowment) had glared apprehensively at Edgar in the queue at Whole Foods. “Why is that man glaring at me?,” Edgar had wondered. “Wait, I can feel his thought. He’s attracted to me and he can’t handle it. Hey, ditch the kid, let’s go get high, and I’ll teach you the meteor-impact intensity of hot gay sex,” Edgar wished he could say.
Then another of Edgar’s personalities had thought, “Maybe if I sang ‘I’m just a soul whose intentions are gooooood! Oh, Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood,’ handsome-dad would relax and trust me. And have sex with me. Oh, God, I love men, especially when I can see their stuff all bulging.”
Then it was quick chat and pay the quasi-cute cashier Dusty, straight young punk-rock dude with a ginger mohawk. Expand section.
Tea at Quetzal? Then jump on the blue bike and head home.
