It was a gift not a purchase, but if we're flaunting cool @$$ shiznit, I was given a Speedo Aquabeat. And MP3 player that plays underwater. Snaps to my goggle strap. I jam out in the pool now.
Last friday I got Lasik eye sugery and no longer need glasses.
A big part of my day to day life since March 1975 is now a memory.
^Virtuous? Let's not get carried away, now...![]()
Well, maybe not. But a couple of weeks of relative restraint, combined with the recent market gains, means that at least the bank balance is looking more virtuous recently even if I'm not. Don't worry, I sense a vice-ridden bespoke tweedy jacket in my not-so-distant future to drive me back into the welcoming arms of Mephistopheles...
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting
for. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent
thing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be
good.
As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in
the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it
had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel
every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil
had already gone away. He would go and look.
He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the
door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face
and lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and
the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror
to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.
He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and
dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and
indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the
eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of
the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if
possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed
brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it
been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the
desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking
laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things
finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these?
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
We use essential cookies to make this site work, and optional cookies to enhance your experience.