Today has sucked. Burritos don’t suck. I have yet to find something I can’t cure with a burrito. I had Chickenpox as a kid, Mom went to Taco Bell… BAM! Cured. Skin might as well have been Photoshopped it was so flawless. A girl once told me she was pregnant, we went out to our first-date restaurant to celebrate, I told her the “super spicy” burrito wasn’t that hot and suggested she order it… BAM! Didn’t like me anymore, called me a dick, decided I wouldn’t make a good father, end of that story. Some douche in cargo shorts tried to fight me one time in the parking lot of my favorite local spot, I went inside, placed an order to go, walked out, beat his ass with a heavy sack of shredded chicken… BAM! Dinner and a show. #burritosoverbabies
I’ve spent so much time behind computers today I feel like I’ve finally lost what was left of my mind. PS - I’m never taking off this hat; it has claimed me as its own.
#MCM - Even though he got my girlfriend pregnant, I’m still under that Gosling spell, because I don’t care who you are: man, woman, or beast. Everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY, has a crush on Ryan Gosling. Anyone who says they don’t is a damn liar. Hell, I’ve seen The Notebook like 17 times, and it’s not because I enjoy the storyline. Anyway, if you’re reading this Ryan, “Call me back dude! Seriously, like what the fuck?! I didn’t mean what I said. I just want to be around you, and you know that. I don’t even care that you’re not Jewish because I’m not a fake-ass friend like that dickhole, Jonah Hill. I miss you Ry-Ry. Give me another chance, bro.”
If you need me tonight, I’ll be the dude in the corner booth dressed like a drug-peddling idiot tourist.
Anybody that really knows me, knows my love for hot sauce is only surpassed by my love for Peanut Butter M&M’s. I seriously couldn’t even imagine how bad it would suck to be allergic to something as erotic as a jar of nuts crushed until they become a texture reminiscent of vaseline. Being allergic to peanut butter is like being allergic to happiness, freedom, string cheese, waiters/waitresses pretending to like you to make your meal more enjoyable, and a multitude of other things people take for granted everyday. I mean, I’ve even used peanut butter to brush my teeth, that’s how serious this shit is to me. Sometimes I dab a little behind my ears when I’m looking to bring something home from the bar. (Trust me, the best cologne only comes in two varieties: crunchy or smooth.) For real though, it works, something to do with pheromones I think. Don’t believe me? Show me a girl that doesn’t love peanut butter and I’ll show you a girl that doesn’t have a heart. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not down to date a robot—that’s some creepy, weird Japanese shit.
Being single is ‘ok’ until about 11 P.M. and it’s time to get in bed, at that point being single is downright awesome. You can sleep diagonal, use all (or none) of the covers, watch the TV loud, and basically do whatever other weird shit helps you sleep at night. Like air drumming, sit-ups, autoerotic-asphyxiation-related exercises, alphabetically reciting your favorite TLC songs starting with “Ain’t 2 Proud 2 Beg,” and my personal favorite: closing your eyes and imagining what you would do if your house suddenly caught fire, and mentally selecting the outfit you’d quickly throw on to ensure you look cool as fuck being interviewed on the local news with a smoldering fire backdrop. I think I’d wear solid black sweats and a Hawaiian shirt halfway unbuttoned. You know, something that looks rather effortless, but still says, “Hey, my house just burned down, but don’t feel bad for me because there’s a good chance I started this fire myself with my smokin’ hot sense of fashion.”