Deadline day

A little experiment with stream of consciousness. Contains a little adult language.

Where the hell is my tie?

I want to wear it with the "Bear Bryant" shirt. The crimson one. Bought it at the evil Walmart, the old one, the one that sits empty now. Apt metaphor. Low prices, my ass.

Can't find it in all this clutter. How does a room get so ridiculous? Whose clothes are these?

Pull out the hanger. Throw the ties on the bed. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

It's gone. Hell. My favorite tie.

Figured the red would go well at the Honor Society thing. School colors and all. Fifteen years removed and I'm still there. Or here. Whatever.

I'm late. OK, I'll just wear the white shirt with the other black tie.

Too much starch. Damn dry cleaners. Hell.

It's falling apart. Don't dare pull that thread. The whole thing'll go.

OK, where's the tie clasp? With the coins. Penny. Penny. Nickle. Dime. Quarter, quarter, penny, nickle, dime. There it is.

Not too big. Not too small. Balance to the belt. OK. Close enough. I'm gone.

One last story. Don't forget to spell check the man's name. It's not Lindbergh, like the fascist flier. No H.

$3.35 a gallon for gas? You've got to be kidding me. If this keeps up, I'll just go to work and come home. Maybe I'll buy a horse. Hay and oats. Hall and Oates. "You can rely on the old man's money; you can rely on the old man's money."

Have to dump those photos before Carol gets here. Good. There's Ruth's car. Good.

Where the hell is my tie?