You know something, I think I should start a series of these. However, that would require some retroactive effort to actually utilize tags and keywords, to which the simple thought of is pretty exhausting.
Maryland still sucks balls, and I hate this fucking state. I have driven on I-95 in nine states, and at no point are people dumber than when they’re in Maryland.
The zombie run is in less than 24 hours. I am feeling apprehensive, nervous, excited, ill-prepared and determined.
Lately, I’ve been a little irritable. A little bit of it has to do with daily nuisances that come with having several pets in the home, and a significantly large bit has to do with a scenario that could be really good or really bad, depending on what happens in the process. Regardless, it’s filled with the unknown, and I don’t really like too much of the unknown right in front of me.
More of it has to do with a lot of the anxiety of the unknown that stands in front of me this weekend, as I will embark on an adventure to prove my capabilities in surviving a simulated zombie apocalypse, when I challenge Run For Your Lives. I don’t know what to expect, and this concerns me, because I’m a very competitive person, and I want very much to succeed at “surviving” the run. More unknown, and it has me a little on edge.
With the season winding down, I decided to go up to Virginia and catch some bonus Braves baseball while spending time with my friends. Even though I knew that the Braves always play like shit up in Nationals Park, I would rather set superstition aside for good company and live baseball. Despite the fact that the Braves managed to pull out the victory in the Friday game, they came back down to earth on Saturday and Sunday, by promptly getting pwned, as is customary in D.C., bringing my record to seeing the Braves at Nationals Park to an awesome 1-5.
A particular airline has lost my luggage. Regardless of the stuff being more or less superficial belongings, I would still very much not be happy if the particular items were lost forever:
I blame:
This weekend fucking kind of stunk from having to watch the Braves job to the Nationals yet two more times, and I was at first delighted to having gotten back to Atlanta on an earlier rather than later flight, but then this fucking debacle is just the god damn icing on top.
This picture sums up Myrtle Beach pretty sufficiently, for the crude, unabashed Redneck Riviera it pretty much is. To clarify one thing, the destroyed underwear was fortunately not mine, but I won’t specify whose. The rest of the weekend was horrendous but delicious foods, lazy rivers ruined by fucking idiots, drinking, humidity that made it difficult to differentiate between the air outside and the air around my balls, more drinking, Butterfly, persons of questionable age, jackhammers, and Four Loko. But for as many beaches I’ve been to this summer, it was nice to actually have gone into the ocean and wash about the waves for a little bit for a change.
Butterflies
Destroyed. Underwear.
