This shit is powerful.
Who would have thunk it?
Definitely not me.
Props to the self-entitled soccer moms who drink two huge glasses of this shit at lunch.
So I just finished up a week long vacation. It was pretty rad and I have the picture to prove it.
Their selection wasn't that great.
Alright. On to the real blog.
Lately I've been thinking about people. People who I hold dear. People who have fucked me over. And people that I've just met. (I have met a lot of new people this year. More than any other year.)
People who I hold dear:
Thanks for kicking it. Even though I'm an asshole and hate you sometimes.
People who have fucked me over:
I am plotting your demise. Slowly. So slowly that I'll probably die of old age before I figure it out, so you needn't worry.
People that I've just met:
You're all pretty rad.
But one sticks out in my mind.
I met you at the bar. I saw you sitting at a table on the patio while me and my friends were waiting in line to see some friends of my one friend. You were sitting at a table with four equally beautiful girls, but you stood out. I'm still not sure what it was but you held my attention. And anyone who has talked to me for more than 30 seconds knows how hard it is to hold my attention. Let's go ride bikes.
I didn't know this at the time but your table was the one we were coming to see. Eventually I summoned up enough liquid courage to talk to you. That and the fact that I was dragged along to do shots with you and my friend.
Time passed too quickly after we started talking. Random shit was the main verse of the night but it was strangely captivating. Normally, I cannot hold a conversation about randomness with someone who I have just met. Bar conversations are not my forte. Before I knew it the night had to come to a close and we were forced to part.
I regret not coming over to talk to you earlier.
Thank you for coming to my birthday.
Alright I'm done.
Almost time to sleep.
One more thing.
This made me laugh so hard.
Will Oldham is great drinking music.
Thanks for the crackers Mom.
