So I'm packing for my trip to Miami this weekend. One of my best friends is getting married and this is his bachelor party. I've realized a few things:
- I own approximately ZERO outfits that could qualify as what a cursory Google search identifies as "clubbing" clothes. I don't go to clubs, I go to dive bars. When I was a suit, I'd go to a dive bar after work, in my suit. Since I've been unemployed, I go to dive bars in various models and makes of sweatpant/jean combinations.
|I don't even remotely know how to start to look like this.|
- Who the Christ buys a shiny ass shirt? Or even worse, those shirts with like a crazy ass dragon all up and down one side of it with just the claw arching over the back or whatever. Ugh.
- I never understood the concept of just going up and being like "I'm grinding on you." I guess I'm too old fashioned. I prefer a lengthy courtship with letters hand-written with a quill pin and lots of pining in an orchard. And I hate that about myself.
|Wouldst thou care to dance to this most distinguished Lady Gaga remix?|
- My physical fitness is missing.
- My favorite pair of flip flops broke today.
- I am broke today.
- Did I mention I have like, no money?
- We're going to a casino one night, and I'm in charge of finding an idiot savant to come along with us. I have completely failed in this regard.
|If I end up being Zack Galifinakis in this movie just because I have a beard, I'll be pissed.|
- I'm dicking around writing a blog post when I need to be finishing packing.
See you in Miami, bitches!