Welcome to Open Thread! Thank gin it’s Friday!
I don’t even drink gin anymore because back in college I decided gin and tonic was my favorite drink, being the first cocktail that I ever bought legally, and you know how that goes.
If you’re saying, “No Faith, I don’t know how it goes, please stop wasting my time and clarify before I click back over to Crashpad,” it went the same way junior high went when I decided that Butterfinger was my favorite candy in the galaxy — I ate one every day for two months; I bought them with money I made hustling kids at Pogs. God I was a Pog beast. A Pog master. A pastor. No, that’s definitely the wrong word. What was your favorite game as a kid?
By the way, who the hell thought that a vending machine on the playground was a great idea for children? Bring that person out of retirement and give them their dream job and then fire them from it. Anyway, I burned the fuck out on those crispety, crunchety, peanut-buttery sumbitches and realized that Bart Simpson was a terrible role model in more ways than one, but mostly for convincing me that Butterfingers were an acceptable form of daily sustenance.
Have you ever ruined your favorite food by having way too much of it? How long did it take to get over it? Longer than it took me to get over eating that stupid Lincoln Log Cabin I made from pretzels in 4th grade that had way too much glue on it? I still can’t eat pretzels unless they’re hidden in chocolate. I’m starting to think I have issues with food.
What I mean to say is now I’m more of a dry white wine person because I get headaches from red wine. Allegedly it’s the nitrates in California reds and I don’t make “gimme that good shit from Spain all day erry day” money.
My point is, I just finished moving and I’m a little delirious. I’m short on sleep and high on life. Life is what the dispensary calls it. I never wanna see or touch another box again for as long as I live. Okay, that’s a lie. We all know that’s a big lie, but the next time I do this I’m definitely paying a small army of muscly humans to do it for me, even if I have to resurrect Pog tournaments to be able to afford it. That’s my career goal at the moment. What’s one piece of winning advice/toolbox item you wish someone would have given you the last time you moved?
I’m very sore. And not in a fun sexy way. More like, if my cat Ninja walks on my chest to get from here to there right now I will die and oh what she acknowledges my pain and is doing it anyway? Okay, I guess I’m dead now. And why is the shortest distance between 2 points always across my body? Why are cats bad at math? Do you have any fur kids? What are their names? How did they come into your life? What are their vices? Do they treat your body like a trampoline to get from point A to point B? Are they so fucking cute that you forgive them every time anyway?
I await your answers and pet pics with bated breath. And by “bated breath” I mean “hands soaking in warm coconut oil to soften these cardboard-induced callouses.”
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