Not many things are more pleasureable than waking up and not being quite sure where you are. While I’m sure rape victims would disagree, there’s always that enjoyable few minutes where you play that game with yourself: “Where am I? Which direction am I facing in relation to a window? Who’s that next to me with the Elton John glasses and smeared makeup?” Figuring out these little mysteries helps drive my inner-Sherlock and gets me pumped for a day of solving crimes. Man I wish I was Encyclopedia Brown. Or Shaggy minus the obvious marijuana side effects.
I think there’s a definite ratio for how cool you are and how many party games you know. There are some valuable skills involved in knowing party games. First off, everyone will invite you to parties, assuming those parties aren’t naked Twister with your family or Scrabble at the nearest retirement home. Neither of those are funny. Second of all, as long as your games are inventive…umm…ya know what? I dunno where I’m going with this, so I’ll just move on.
We were talking about this at tennis and I think it deserves mentioning. Guys, is it ok for girls to call you “babe”? I mean, guys coined the phrase…Girls, we don’t call you hunk. It’s dangerous to ask another question to my readers because, I mean, very few of you answered the last one (see: Checkmate, ol’ chum. And no, I’m not talking about the street). So…just mull on that a bit and I’ll force some more bad writing later. Or now…because I think I’ll make this a double blog sunday.
Oh, resident hero award goes to Cole for his spectacular recovery of my backpack. BFFAW indeed.