“I just don’t get chicks.”
With a coffee in hand, I leaned back and regarded my friend. “C’mon man, who really ever gets chicks?”
“Did I tell you about that date I had last weekend? It was with this girl I really liked, but throughout the date, she didn’t seem that interested in me?”
There are Pale Ales on the table. The lighting is dim. A chilly draft brings in much-needed fresh air. The other patrons provide gentle murmurs for ambiance.
“What really gets me,” Ken says as he grips his beer tightly, “is that she can say one thing, and then do something else.”
I don’t win many awards. Hardly any, in fact. So it was a big surprise when I won the Program Guide Cover Contest for DECA’s NY Conference in high school for a second year in a row.
The main speaker was pretty surprised too, apparently. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Date: June 2
To: Mike Lee
From: Friend in IT
Subject: [fwd] [re] [fwd] [re] [fwd] [re] I can still smell you...
hey mike, here’s the full thread. I reordered it so it’s in chronological order. it’s funny as hell. it’s like a friggin soap opera. don’t these people know that my job is to monitor work emails? they shouldn’t be sending crap like this at work. but what the hell. makes my job more fun. heh. enjoy!
It’s not that Kris is unintelligent. Far from it. Her Ivy League graduate degree is plenty proof of that. In fact, she’s one of the most intelligent people I know.
It’s just that… well… let me tell you the story and you can see for yourself. (She’s going to hate me for this.)
There are a lot of fucking idiots on the streets, pardon my French. So it’s a matter of necessity that you employ defensive driving techniques, lest you end up being a maroon smear on the pavement. I say this because I’ve had to share the road with such idiots in the rain in both San Francisco and NYC these last couple of weeks.
Over the years, I’ve found myself unconsciously acting on certain defensive patterns while driving. So I decided to write them down here. Maybe one day, these will become lessons I pass onto my kids.
Or maybe one day, I’ll write a book, get filthy rich, then hire a chauffeur so I never have to deal with those fucking idiots on the streets anymore.
We got off the ski lift right before the high winds forced Kirkwood to shut it down. That left us at the top of Caples Crest with a handful of other snowboarders and skiers, all huddled to the ground to shield our faces from the stinging squall.
The winds had begun as Leslie and I approached the top. Our chair had swung precariously in the frozen gales. It would have been fun, like a playground swing, had it not been for the ten foot drop and piercing cold. Unless you grew up on an Alaskan playground, I suppose.
It’s been a while since I’ve had the energy to write. To be honest, I’m not really in the mood right now. But the cathartic nature of writing is what is compelling me to sit here and type. Not that I’m the one who really needs the healing.
“Oops!” Kathy yelped. Her expression froze as her eyes searched the food court, making sure no one saw the blob of ketchup that just landed on her left boob.
I looked over and grinned. Kathy’s eyes slowly drifted downward. With the burger still halfway in her mouth, she stared sadly at the red dot on her white t-shirt. “Oops!” she muttered again.
Chinese parents have stomachs of iron. Literally; their stomach lining is cold hard metal. Rivets line their intestines. There is very little they cannot digest; I kid you not. Want me to prove it?
Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you a story. ‘Tis a true story, a story from my youth.