setting the scene: i'm wearing a pair of jeans, blue t'shirt, and flops; sweeping the falling buds that have covered the ground at the plant nursery i'm working at and singing "i keep working myself back to you babe with a burning love inside".
it was bound to happen sooner or later. the odds were staked dangerously high against me, and yet despite realizing 'the eventual', i couldn't stop myself from singing while i swept. for me, the two go hand in hand like salami on rye, or, ginger on yellow tail sashmi. the thing is-not everyone puts salami on their rye, or, ginger on their sashmi and not everyone likes to sing the golden oldies while they sweep and this void in the majority in return puts my cloest habit in the minority, where in contrast to it's yang, my new co-worker being a member of the hill billy majority, catching me in the act thinks i'm a loon.
if the only knew the half of it. i not only sing while sweeping but while re-stocking the fruit stand, i turn up the spree and do a little dancing.