In a moment I was alone and it dawned on me the last thing I ate were two starbursts I found in my shirt pocket. Immediately I fantasized that they were not candy but real starbursts and I teleported through a wormhole to the place where Anton Chekhov found a pencil and scribed "verily I say unto thee that I used to be King James in a previous assignment." I laughed aloud because it was like Gabby Hayes singing "Take me back to Sorrento", and who was I to jest about prior engagements. The toilet gushed and I realized I'd moved just far enough off the seat to trigger the auto-flush just as the door opened and I heard the words "flight 8752 is boarding" meaning I better fold the map and ask at the next gas station where to register my wish list for on-line invitees. It all seems so simple to the fat-asses with headphones listening to the translator but this is just one moment in the profession irreverently dubbed bandana curator and I purposely picked a non-complex example to stultify your angst. Oh, why oh why was I given this face? Wouldn't it have been more a propos if I didn't look exactly like the janitor refilling the tampon machine in Fried Green Mojitos? The task of just finding shirts to match the complexion is exasperating, let alone constantly veering to avoid another inguinal hernia.So here's another donation to all the underused ring bearers and the awful task of scraping glitter off the backroom blackout shades. Whatever it seems to you, back off about three clicks then call your favorite bachelor to make him understand this all just doesn't appear or is given to you free. I kid because I love.