But you move to France for a year and not be busy. 2,000 pages to read, people to see, lady business suits to buy, beers to drink. Working diligently on R Kelly as we speak. Apparently this is my Finnegan's Wake, this essay.
In other banal updates, I had to bring back my facebook account. I'm slightly upset about it, but my mother was visibily terrified by the notion of me being 6 timezones away without one. So I'm doing it for her, begrudingly. I've reached the point where I'm going to be very liberal with my de-friending though. The idea that 99% of the people I went to high school with can see updates on my life scares me. At the age of 23No one should have to be in contact with a kid who used to receive blowjobs in a bathroom, barring immediate family relation or unfortunate choices in best friends. Don't worry, that's just a generic example. I can't go more specific because my school had oddly specific controversies. Granted, maybe to someone else I was part of a few, and am their version of a blowjob boy. Everything is relative. (Though, shouldn't Blowjob Boy be a super hero or something? Saving the forever lonely one blowjob at a time?.......I'm apparently in a weird, weird mood today.)
I'll leave you with a small, devastating anecdote.
This weekend, while attending a Corn Party, I decided to roast a hot dog. My friend Adam asked if he could piggy-back his weiner (Yes, done on purpose. Yes, I am 12.) onto my roasting stick because he was busy making corn. "Of course!" I replied, with enthusiasm, as I am such a great friend.
Cue 15 minutes of geniune roasting expertise. These hot dogs were crisp, darkened (but not burnt), and bubbling in all the right places. This night, the stars had aligned for me: I was the Mario Batali of hot dogs. With exhuberance, I ran back to the table...excited to throw on some mustard and stuff my face with the perfect roasted cylinder of mystery meat. Unfortunately, at this moment I happened to be really fucking drunk. However, this does not diminish my ability to tell a glorious hotdog from a not-so-glorious hotdog. Those hot dogs were like the Van Goghs of hot dogs.
So I'm drunk, and really excited, and failed to remember a steep drop from the yard to the driveway. It is here that tragedy strikes. I slip. Was it the wet grass? Was it the slower reaction time due to my inebriation? The cause will never be known, but the consequences will haunt me for ages. I slammed down into the ground, my sacrum intact, but bruised, my dignity shattered. (This sacrum was previously injured in the 2007 Dairy Queen Chair collapse; it had since made a full recovery.)
In the air flew my weiners, aerodynamic and glorious. I narrowly missed shish kebobing myself with the roasting stick, but I glady would have suffered the fate if my weiners could have been saved. All I could do was sit and sigh....and also I really couldn't move because my butt was pretty bruised.)
JC helped me upright, and Adam, while angry, managed to salvage his hotdog, as it had landed on a safe, edible place. The fate of my hot dog, however? Truly not for the faint of heart, I warn you. It was found, not five minutes later....in torn, stringy pieces. It may have been gravity ripping it apart, or a chuprachabra-like animal may have reached it before it could be saved. Regardless, it was a hero's death.
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