Hey, hey, babydorks. This has been a great weekend.
Were any of you ever in junior high? Did you ever have that Friday night were your mom dropped you and a girl off at the movies and tossed you a couple extra bucks to get some popcorn. The movie was "Tommy Boy" or some Sandler/Farley/Segal epic. You had your popcorn you laughed and you stole a few kisses. After all of that you dropped the girl off (just a few precious but compromising feet away from your mom's Aerostar) and stole one last kiss.
That was my weekend, you sweet and lovely dorks.
Me and R. Girl had that one defining moment in a relationship. That one moment isn't a second, that one moment isn't even a minute. Nobody has ever defined how long a moment can last. And, if Webster is reading, a moment can last a few days.
We had pictures devolped today from our past few weeks together. I really liked the one of us on top of the troll statue (read back for more info) and asked for doubles.
This is a defining moment in a relationship, because....
"I want to put this picture in a frame ... is that O.K."
"Yes it is, why wouldn't it be?"
"Because it's the "Frame Stage" are we ready to go to that stage yet?"
"Yes, let's go to that stage."
On Friday I score some very potent and very west coast weed. I haven't done drugs in months. But when someone hands you a shitface fuckload of potent, grown in grandpa's back yard weed, you don't say "No thanks". You say "Who's got brownie mix?"
So, upon advice, I poured a quoted "5 months worth" of very potent grass into a batter of brownies.
Let bake for 25 minutes.
Become so shitfaced that ....
"Where do you hide it all" "How about in your neck, shit look at that fucker"
"Did I have legs"
"Are there hills? Help me with the hills."
"Did you want the chair? A chair? Did you want to find the chair?" "What the hell are you talking about"
You wake up at 6 in the fucking afternoon the next day! 6:00 p.m.? What the hell do you do then? Drink beer and rent movies, that's what.
So, today I was more productive. Me and my sweet, sweet baby went and spent our weekly day downtown. We had a great day of window shopping and gyros.
An old woman with a camera set up this situation for me.
Old woman: Do you want your picture taken?
Me: Yes. What?
Old woman: Do you want your picture taken? Do you want the camera, you can have it.
Me: Yes, I want the camera.
Old woman: Five dollars.
Me: No way, I thought you were giving it away because you are high.
(Walk on for a moment)
British guy: Are you guys not from around here? (This guy is acutally sipping from a STARBUCKS cup ... only 400 yards from where Starbucks first opened. Very Seattle.)
Me and R. Girl: Yes, we are.
British guy: Well, you aught to be careful. That's one of the oldest Seattle scams in the book.
(This guy walked near us for 5 minutes without talking. I know he wanted us to ask him more questions about how to avoid Seattle's downfalls, but I didn't care ... he made me feel like a tourist asshole enough anyways).
What scam?
Oh here's a camera for 5 dollars! Fooled you, it's only worth 4.50!
A scam! Like I'm dumb enough to let some old crack sucking camera whore run off with my money?
"Oh, it's a Sony? Well, here's my debit card, go shopping with this. What? My social security number? Sure, you DO have a camera."
So, it was a good day except for British asshole ruining my good natured ribbing of the local crack heads.
Oh and there is the haircut I got on Friday at misogynist barbers.
Short and sweet.
"You know what I do with a first date? I tie them up and beat them. No, wait, how did that comic say it? I tie them up and drag them by the hair and then I beat them unconcious. No, it wasn't "unconcious" ... I think it was "senseless"."
So, needless to say, I came out of that place with a MOTHER FUCKING G.I. JOE, MARINE, HAIL TO THE CHIEF, HAND ME A GUN AND WATCH ME SHOOT UP A SCHOOL haircut that is so fucking short that I feel naked without a hat.
Ahhhh, at least I have a sweety. She jokes and tells me she likes it while others go "Goddamn, did you fuck a weedwhacker?"
I need a new hat, dorks.
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