b: i wish you luck my child.
me: i'm terrified.
b: i'm terrified for you.
me: but it can't be too bad. i have piercings and tattoos.
b: one would think. it's just violently ripping hair out of the most sensitive part of your body.
me: oh god. i'm going to puke.
me: good lord. she's running late.
b: oh boy.
me: i'm scared the buzz is starting to wear off. i should have done three shots.
b: should have brought a flask.
me: i still have to drive myself home.
b: should have planned ahead.
me: no one was available.
b: what the fuck am i? chopped liver?
me: i didn't think you'd be into it.
b: you have no idea what i would give to see your face walking out of there tonight.
me: i feel like i should get some money off for her being late. i hauled ass to get here by six. and no one at this fucking salon thing is friendly. at all.
b: totally. you're willing to torture yourself like this and the bitch isn't even there on time to get it over with.
me: and i'm a nervous pee-er. i've peed three times since i've been here and now i'm self-conscious that my twat reeks of urine.
b: that's probably better than it normally smells.
i hope you've gleaned what i meant for you to glean from that conversation.
i don't have a bucket list - but if it did it would include things like punch a stranger in the face, get a brazilian wax, saw a snake in half, shave shitler's entire body while he slumbers, etc.
so at least i can check one thing off my list.
in other news. i feel like shit. like absolute fucking garbage.
i went to watch shitler bowl last night. here are a couple snapshots from my night:
plus, i've reach an all-time new low. due to puke breath - i had to break down and use this:
|fuck you shawn white gum|
this is what my life has been reduced to.