I would be very confused by love of all of this, if only it wasn’t for one thing.
We were angry over-reactors literally headbutting the walls at the bar. Every glance from a stranger was a reason to defend your honor.
Slime-making is basically when you spend $30 on supplies to make a handful of sticky goo that you could buy for 50 cents in the vending machines as you leave the supermarket.
The bizarre humor that rushes through my head is decades below my own age group and doesn’t even need an audience to spring up.
All the “Just For Men” hair dye commercials and black birthday balloons with tombstones on them can’t shake me.