Smells Like Detente

I have a tendency to lean on my left hand while working, reading, or doing anything else that requires seated, stationary behavior. I do it so frequently, in fact, that I have a semi-permanent, barely noticable callus under my chin. Gross, right? Anyway, that's not the point.

Because of the leaning, when I have sleeves pulled over my hands due to Xtreme!air conditioning or general immaturity, I end up with my nose buried in my cuff. As usual, that happened today at work, resulting in the following train of thought:

Hmm, my shirt smells like Morocco.

Well, not Morocco, precisely. More like the laundry detergant I borrowed in Morocco.

That's so weird. I know I've washed it since.

God, Morocco was so awesome.

I wish I could travel more.

I could get a job that involved serious travel.

But I'm awfully happy at my current job.

But being happy is no reason not to change. In fact, it's a terrible reason.

But there's no sense in making myself miserable simply for the sake of change.

Maybe I should do more research on those international job options.

But...happy!

But...smells like Morocco!

And that's when I realized: my shirt smells like existential crisis. God. Life sucks.