Throughout my life there have been mysteries and mental phantasms. The infrant n0bby struggled to understand the inedibility and poor nutritional value of my own fingers and toes.
As an adolescent, quadratic equations were something that made sense to other people.
As a young man, I struggled to make sense of Caspar Weinberger, Manchester United and Cherry Cola.
In my 30's I began to accept that some things make no fUcking sense and do not merit the merest contemplation.
But now I am immersed in an enigmatic mystery that makes the Shroud of Turin look like a screenshot of The Simpsons.
My brain is constantly occupied.
My consciousnous is consumed with a quest for understanding.
Baths grow cold around me.
Cigarettes burn to the filter leaving seared welts on my unfeeling fingers as I gaze into space.
I write entire paragraphs of reports at work, only to realise that after 3 hours, I have written the word 'why' 2,346 times.
As my dotage approaches, and my life's sins are repeated by my progeny, various wisdoms have been shown to me, but one frustrating, ball-achingly annoying question remains.
Why do men have nipples?