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Yes, Mickey still has more of this stuff to say. So, hang onto your shorts, and don’t let the old bird talk you out of them. But he’s gonna try… just like naturists once lobbied him.

And this stuff will probably not be as surprising as it was once or twice before, because you have heard him say it… err, saw him write it… in a previous post. Or two or three of them.

If you are one of those sane people who are not crazy enough to repeatedly read this blog, then you may indeed be surprised by stupid Mickey saying, “It’s good for you to be naked.” So, I should quickly review why Mickey ever needed to think about becoming a nudist at all.

You see, when Mickey was a child of ten, he was sexually assaulted by an older boy. Not a pleasurable thing, mind you, but a bizarre twisting of the private parts under threats of hurting the victim even more if he cried out or called for help. You know, the kind of thing that causes so much trauma that poor Mickey couldn’t allow himself to remember until he was twenty-two when he suddenly relived the entire incident in a PTSD-like flashback.

After the flashback, stupid Mickey decided that on this topic he needed to make himself into a smarter Mickey. He took a sociology class in college on human sexuality. He learned about the sexual abuse of children and the effects it commonly had on its victims. And of the many things he learned, he learned that it is important in the matter of healing to tell somebody. But he had a good, loving family, and he was reluctant to bring a life-spoiling thing like that to their attention. And the Methodist minister who had saved his life as a young teenager had moved away to a distant new congregation. So, who did he tell? His second regular girlfriend, the one who had been previously married and divorced. She had been through some tough things herself and therefore was able to understand.

The relationship between Mickey and Ysandra developed from working together as a teacher and teacher’s aide in a small South Texas school district. Their working relationship grew into a dating sort of thing by 1983, and one of the things that they most liked to do together was visiting Austin for the weekends. It was a long drive, but Mickey’s parents and Ysandra’s sister, and her family lived in the area. Mickey would stay in his parents’ house. And Ysandra would stay with her sister, her sister’s husband, and their baby daughter. They would go to see the sights in Austin, Zilker Park, the stage shows, the movie theaters, the good restaurants, and even the circus when it came to town. But there was one unexpected complication. Ysandra’s sister lived in a clothing-optional apartment house. And real nudists lived there.

Picking up Ysandra meant embarrassment. Mickey had to go up to the door with one of those sliding window things that gangsters use on bootlegger-casino doors, alert the gatekeeper to his presence, and then wait while the naked, hairy guy went and got Ysandra. And she invariably asked Mickey to come in and wait while she finished getting ready. There were lots of things inside there to look at and turn red over. Two young girls, probably sixth graders, were swimming nude in the pool one time, showing off bare butts when they dived. Another time, two beautiful young women with t-shirts and no pants on glared at him the whole time Mickey stood by the pool because, unbeknownst to Mickey, he was staring at them with an open mouth and purple face.

A third time, a boy with blond hair and no clothes on was playing pool at the courtyard pool table.

“Hey, skinny guy!” the boy said to Mickey, “take your clothes off and come play pool with me.”

“Can’t. Waiting for the girlfriend. Going to a movie,” Mickey said nervously.

Ysandra was fine with making fun of Mickey for being constantly embarrassed. She and her friends there enjoyed asking Mickey to go nude while spending time there, which he never did. The ladies got a good laugh when his face turned strange colors. But one of her brother-in-law’s friends took pity on Mickey and told him about the benefits of being naked in nature, nude in the sunshine, and meditating in your birthday suit. He also gave Mickey a book on naturism and an address for where he could get more such books.

And books were Mickey’s fatal weakness. He read and learned a lot about nudism. In his apartment, when he was alone and not expecting visitors, he got comfortable being naked most of the time. Of course, being seen naked by anyone else would start up the PTSD again. It was bad enough to interfere with getting closer and more intimate with Ysandra and eventually forced them apart. And being a school teacher precluded being known to be a nudist for Mickey. Still, the experience would lead to Mickey’s heart being captured by nudism as an ultimate goal.

Whether there will be a part 5 or not depends on a lot of things. For now it is merely a lingering threat.

It bothers me that my sense of sight and my ability to type are both deteriorating now when I still have so many more stories to tell. I want to write more about my time as a school teacher, recalling the students I learned to both love and hate… often at the same time. And I want to put more of my surrealistic ideas into fantasy-comedy stories,,, with illustrations I drew myself. But I am having a hard time typing this… and drawing is nearly impossible. My hands hurt with the cold weather. This paragraph took twenty minutes with as many corrections… or more.

So bare with me… I mean bear with me… like two bears… but it is easier to explain and make jokes than go back to make corrections.

When it warms up, things will get better… I hope.

Thanks for the idea, Norm.

I really didn’t know what I was going to write about in this post. I have been tired all day, not able to get any sleep after what happened last night a 3:55 a.m.

So… What happened?

The monkey sitting at the random screwy events typewriter decided to write about late-night driving done by tired women.

I was awakened by a loud smash. Followed by the sound of metal and plastic in a trash compactor accompanied by a screeching sound that obviously had to be producing sparks. Sorta like a car rolling over. Then a car alarm sounded like someone was breaking into a car.

I was smart enough to put my shoes on. It was a cold night, so I had my red pajamas on rather than being naked. I grabbed my phone to go look and stumbled downstairs, bleary-eyed and ready to find a crashed airplane on our side lawn.

But it wasn’t an airplane. I dreamed about that part. It was a compact car with a caved-in front fender and crushed parts that suggested it had rolled completely over and come to rest on its wheels again.

Once the alarm had gone off, the car had gone completely dark. I looked for smoke… none. I looked for movement on the driver’s side, and there was none.

I was certain it was a very bad outcome. I was completely awake by that time, and I knew the most helpful thing I could do was call 911. The neighbor to the south appeared, and he went to check on the driver as he heard me talking to the 911 operator.

There were three police cars in about two minutes, and an ambulance came seconds afterward.

The lady who had been driving woke up and opened her car door before the police arrived. And she seemed fine. She told the neighbor that she had fallen asleep at the wheel. She had glanced off the side of the huge live oak on the corner by our house, tearing off a chunk of bark. She wasn’t sure her car had rolled over, but she thought it had. She seemed okay. Maybe being asleep and relaxed had made her rubbery enough to not get badly hurt. She had been wearing a seatbelt with a shoulder harness, and it helped save her life.

The police and ambulance took over then. I went back to bed to obsess about what happened for what was left of my night.

So, I haven’t given up, Norman. But, I haven’t slept enough. And I haven’t figured it all out, yet.

700 days in a row of posting at least once on WordPress daily. It is my second-longest string of posting ever. I may surpass the two years I did a few years ago. But I also might not.

My health is deteriorating. I am having trouble even getting the basic things of life done. My novel writing has slowed to a crawl. My vision is blurring, I feel like every time I drive may be the last time due to a fatal car accident.

My world will evaporate quickly after my last breath. My wife will do nothing to keep my books in print. My kids may not find it essential either. They really haven’t read any of them. My artwork will probably hit the trash pile.

Of course, the world we all currently live in may not outlast me by very many years.

But my personal despair is not long-lasting. I will happily go about what business I can tomorrow, even if it is only looking at Twitter and watching some TV shows. And you shouldn’t worry overmuch either. What comes next is beyond my power to alter. Beyond yours as well. So, make the most of today. And tomorrow if it is given to us.

It is said that Friday the 13th, though really unlikely to be lucky for you if you are a Knight Templar, is a lucky day once you survive one with no bad luck at all.

So, did I experience any good luck on this infamously unlucky day?

Well, I sold a book. Not today the 13th, but I discovered I sold it on Amazon today.

The weather has been cripplingly cold on my arthritic joints, making it hard to write, draw, or walk for essential exercise to keep my diabetes and arthritis in check. But when I went out for a walk at the usual time, the weather was perfect for it… not too cold, not too warm for how I was dressed, and beautiful sunshine to light my way.

My hemorrhoid has stopped bleeding, so I managed to do some nude meditation today for the first time in months. With friends… but they are only imaginary.

I got a voicemail from a publisher wanting to talk to me about one of my books. I know they will only want to make money in some way that I will have to pay for. I have become cynical about the publishing industry. But it is interest from a publisher in some of my books.

The chalkboard girl is right, It is foolish to believe in good or bad luck. We make our own meaning in life. And that is a superpower.