Pants and Bowls.

Loves,

I boiled in my bed-sheets all last night, worried about going in that damn KFC after all that you're not a good chicken bucketer hubbub. Then I jumped up in bed and the cat hated that, but oh well because when you have an epiphany you jump up in bed. The epiphany was this: I'll quit. And I did. SO, no longer will I don that too small hat or walk two and a half miles in those blister educing ,slip-resistant, eye sores of work shoes. Gone are my days of trying to appease the girl with all the names of her two week boyfriends tattooed on her neck and forearms and probably other places that are hidden by that flouncy red polo. With God Myself (yay atheism) as my witness, I will never scoop coleslaw into styrofoam cups again.


Today is a good day, because of the above and because of all the other things I am going to tell you. I bought a pair of black pants that did not fit two weeks ago. They would not even button. Now they button. Still snug, but they're getting there. It makes me feel dumb for being so happy about that. Yay I can wear less fabric around my waist and thighs and calves and ankles. Party circa '99. I used to really believe in embracing vanity. I mean, it was a bad idea to put me in a room with a mirror because I would probably end up looking in it for a fat minute. Now I think that's kind of gross. I'm still happy those pants fit though, so maybe my attachment to self-image isn't all gone, just cooling.

Today is also a good day because I found my bowl and the green lighter I used to get it going on the last days of being a college freshie. That made me nostalgic. I hate nostalgia, but not really. I hate it because it makes all productivity stop and I end up just sprawled out on the bed listening to Patrick Watson's The Great Escape on repeat. I love it for the same reason.

So I guess now you know I smoke pot. Sorry if you were hoping I didn't. Do bloggers smoke pot? Is that allowed? I bet Sarah Dessen gets baked. She gets roasted and then goes and writes all those depressing books about girls doing coke and getting beat by their boyfriends. Oh, coke. Oh, boyfriends.

Please realize there's a guy under all this sass. I think Kathy Griffin and I share a similar fate. We're both crass and brass, but there was that one episode of Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D-List where Jay Leno made her cry. Sometimes that happens to me too. I'll probably get mushy in posts later on, but this is like our second date and I'm not going to do that to you just yet. LOOKS LIKE YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO FOLLOW ME. CLICK. THE. BUTTON.


Thanks for reading,
Nick