Last July I stopped wearing underpants. It's now March and no one has noticed yet. This is very disappointing to me, but I don't know why. So I thought I would casually bring up the subject when we went on the hike. We often spoke of weighty subjects - or of trivial subjects in a weighty way - as men do when there are no women around. Ladies, your man is much deeper than you think, but he only delves deep into those depths when he hasn't seen any boobs he liked in at least six hours, and his higher brain functions have had time re-establish themselves. Gentlemen, stop thinking about boobs.
But I didn't want to bring up the underwear subject in a pre-meditated way. It had to fit naturally into the conversation, or else break a long comfortable silence in that joyous way that stupid instinctive remarks often do between friends re-connecting with nature, and shit.
So I had to choose carefully the moment at which to raise this vexed question, source of mild Angst. Angst rather than ennui. Angst is a German word. A Frenchman would have his trousers off in a flash if he weren't wearing any underwear, and proceed with an ode to his c*ck. Wonderfully, he would never consider hiding his shortcomings, but would simply declare that small c*cks are sexy, and thus would they be.
When Leo Tolstoy was a young man his brother told him to stand in a corner, and stay there until he stopped thinking of white bears.
days without, you know ...