I got stood up this weekend, twice. That’s not a complaint, or a grab for your internet pity, but an explanation as to how I found myself at a bar on Saturday night, completely overdressed for a grindcore show, drinking heavily. I managed to distract myself from the fact that I was obliterating my anti-cheat day by meeting a couple of interesting people.
I didn’t personally meet them; it was more that I was timing the Pulp editor to see how long it took him to navigate his way out of increasingly awkward and weird conversations. He did pretty well with “Guy wearing dick T-shirt” but really let me down when it came to “Probably on cocaine girl.” On the plus side, I did figure out an exact formula to determine how many genitalia it’s acceptable to have present on a given article of clothing, so my night wasn’t a total bust.
Sunday ended up being full of bummers, just because I fucked up the non-cheat day, and I was still chock full of self-loathing come Monday, which leads us to...
I went Hiking yesterday. I had a surprisingly good time. I really shouldn’t have been the one walking in front, though. I was just kind of mad at myself, and not really thinking about where we were headed. So I ended up walking us right out of the park. I’m not going to say I went a little fear crazy, that would be inaccurate. I probably didn’t need to talk about Deliverance as much as I did, but we all make mistakes, and we managed to make it back to the car anyway.
I was feeling tired and oddly satisfied... but then I ate a goddamn sandwich.
Take the number of genitals present on your shirt, or other article of clothing, and subtract 1. This is the appropriate number of dicks to have on a t-shirt.
