I ventured out, slowly, to acclimate in the forested gloom. A chipmunk mocked me. I know it, that sashaying rodent.
After 29 years, and with great difficulty, I am close to not being able to remove my wedding band from its proper finger, too chubby, too swollen.
Thus, the dreaded relocation to Pinkiesville.
I feel like a gangster in a Damon Runyon story. I find myself belting out show tunes from "Guys and Dolls." Street corner newspaper urchins tip their caps and say, "Howdy, Mr. Detroit! Jeepers, you're hotsy-totsy!"
Wearing a pinkie ring is kinda embarrassing, but will it escalate and lead me to no good?
*gasp!*
Am I on the path to -- *gulp!* -- Jazz Hands?
