If you must – like, have to – break protocol and converse with someone in a public restroom while backing out a hairy groaner of a dump, do not use the word, ‘bro.‘ To wit, “Sorry, I’ll be just a minute, bro.”
No. Don’t.
If you must – like, have to – break protocol and converse with someone in a public restroom while backing out a hairy groaner of a dump, do not use the word, ‘bro.‘ To wit, “Sorry, I’ll be just a minute, bro.”
No. Don’t.
Back in September (2011) I was on the road and visually and sonically reminded that I am becoming an old fucker. This is because I am finding more and more shit out there in the world that I don’t understand. I suspected that I’d find more, and I was right. …more lack of clues…
I hate it when my socks get old and lose their stretchy, elastic goodness. When this happens, they stay up for about fifteen purposeful steps, then crumple around the tops of my boots in a defeated green pile.
This feels weird, like I’m walking around with my pants down, but not.
And why does washing them make the dysfunctional ones undetectable again? Then I inevitably pair a good sock with a fail-sock.