Today, at work, while my fat ass was pounding away on the keyboard like a crack-addled primate, a sudden, strong scent in my office of Banquet Salisbury Steak in a Boiling Bag caught at my attention and swept me back -- in the fashion of the famous tea-soaked madeline biscuit in Proust's Remembrance of Things Past, wherein taste prompts memory -- back to those long, long gone and forgotten days of being a little boy babysat by the neighbors' daughters while my parents were out on Friday nights.
I came out of my revery after a moment and sought the source of the odor, but I could not find it. Then I noticed that my armpits were pretty sweaty.
Damn! All I've got to say is: when your pit-sweat smells like gravy, you'd better know it's time to lose some weight.
I came out of my revery after a moment and sought the source of the odor, but I could not find it. Then I noticed that my armpits were pretty sweaty.
Damn! All I've got to say is: when your pit-sweat smells like gravy, you'd better know it's time to lose some weight.