Braces make my lips feel dry. They aren’t actually dry, of course. I slather Chapstick on ’em like whoa, but the sensation is still like that of having pulled into a gas station in southern Arizona to fuel up, but the pump is suuuuuuuuuuper slowwwwwwwwww, and you can’t get your water bottle from the console cupholder because the little pump trigger-holder is broken and will only inject the fuel if you clamp the handle yourself, and you have allergies, so you have to mouth breathe. And it’s breezy. Not windy, fortunately. But the air is just strong enough to wick away the precious moisture from your lips. A tumbleweed lazily skitters by in the distance.
In glorious news, there was ice cream at the company potluck lunch. I loaded up on that Blue Bell vanilla and drizzled several spoonfuls of honey all over it. Yummmm.