In my head, I pictured it like this: come home, work out, clean the house.
While working out, I thought up an idea, causing a derailment of plan. New plan: come home, work out, write a quick short story about a fat girl.
While taking part in the gobs of comments tacked to the bottom of Dave Riley’s latest, I was inspired—the title. “If you can’t say something nice…”
What was supposed to be a two-page short story has spiraled out of control. So nothing good tonight, either. Sorry.
Instead, you get a bunch of random thoughts:
My lava lamp has frozen in the “hey, look—it’s a penis” pose, which is making me feel a little uncomfortable. Because it’s pointed right at me, and nothing good has ever come from a penis pointed at me.
One of the local radio stations, the one that tries to be rebellious and underground, plays Sublime about a hundred and sixty times a day. It makes me really hate Sublime.
I heard that McDonalds is going to begin serving breakfast all day. If this happens, it will simultaneously be the greatest thing to ever happen to me, and the worst thing to ever happen to me. The greatest because, you know…hot damn! Breakfast all day! No more waking up before noon on a Sunday just because I really want a tasty McMuffin.
The worst, because I’ll probably pack on another fifty pounds if I can get a sausage McMuffin any time I want.
I don’t like stinky people. I think I’ll devote an entire post to that.
Handjobs are awesome. I’ve met guys who don’t like them, and I tend to think those guys are insane. Sex is great and all, but handjobs are classic. It’s like going back and watching one of your favorite movies from the 1980’s—you know there’s better stuff out there, but this still freakin’ rocks.
I’m not sure I still have the mental capabilities to learn. I try to follow politics sometimes, and I just end up being the mentally challenged guy that wanders around grinning and giving everyone a high-five.