Bossa Nova, Baby, Bossa Nova

Why wait for the wallop of a whim to write? Whim is my raison d'être. I'm not even going to look that up to verify the spelling. No one else will either. (Don't even think about it Dear Reader!) It's French. Not Portuguese. Which brings me back to the eternal conflict between whim and obligation. Yeah. Another comment was posted here. Well, rather, there, on (in?) my previous post. From an outsider who is now an insider. Even on a sunny Spring day. So, welcome Perfumes. Welcome to the struggle. The struggle between the ever-enticing siren song of sloth and entropy, and the do-we-have-to-do-it-now energy. The struggle to address the dearth of frivolity. The insurrection whose only goal is to exile vanilla (plain and French). At least to add some chocolate sprinkles. Maybe a cherry too. The Tidy Bowl Man and I swirling in inertia. (Just felt like it). But I needed to write something. An acknowledgement. A thank you. And a sincere one at that. If one is to believe what one reads. Could you be the fabled Girl from Ipanema?