Saturday, September 13, 2014

Will you wake from your dream, with a wolf at the door

I have been out of bed seven minutes. In that time I have gotten an invisible splinter embedded into the side of my foot. It hurts like a mofo every time I step so, in an attempt to avoid burning pain, I am walking like a woman wearing one high heel. Also, my glasses just crumbled into a bunch pieces.

Fuck you, Saturday morning.

I remember when I was in Belize (maybe it was Roatan) and one of the tour guides explained that the houses don't have numbers, they have colors and names. Yesterday I learned that there are places here in the states that are not unlike that. I spent the day setting up cable, internet, utilities, etc. Depending on which of those things I was doing, I had to use a different variation of our new address. Our new place has, no shit, five different variations of an address. One variation is simply: Sandbar.

Apparently Google thinks Sandbar is a drunk chick making her father proud
How come guys never do that in their spring break pics? I mean, when was the last time you saw a dude looking at the camera all sexified while his bro cups his junk from behind him? Oh wait, I forgot, it's hot when chicks do it, it's gay when dudes do it.*snark*

But what if one dude's junk is really cold and the other dude is doing him a solid? Isn't that part of the bro code? Is doing that thing where you blow on your hands to keep them warm, only you're doing it to your bro's junk a part of the deal?

You're welcome for the mental image.