updatus
Weekend. Birthday party with dry ice at mobile park in Renton. Birthday party with cotton candy in HUGE brick number in Capitol Hill. Hanging out with Nate. Roaming Northgate with the Fat Boys. Conversations with landlord. Trying desperately - FOR THE LOVE OF GOD - to sell the last of that goddamned furniture I bought with Bill. (Seriously, what the fuck? It’s cute, it’s not beaten up, somebody just buy it already.) Laundry and stale bourbon and Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and more laundry and sleeping and stressing and training. Don’t remember much of it, honestly. It was spent in a stupor.
Part of it I DO remember. When the Fat Boys are all in attendance, we look like cover models for four wildly disparate fashion catalogs. We have gotten to the point where we see things in stores and pick them out - not for ourselves - but for one of the other fat boys, whose style it fits. We are a fascinating sociological experiment. (I am fairly certain that’s why the lame-ass high school girls were staring at us.) There are choruses of “So good, or no good?” After a week of stress and general crapitude, I needed them for awhile.
Seriously. Kind of like the Spice Girls.
Bourbon gets stale?
This bottle has been at our house - not always properly closed - for I don’t know HOW many months. All I know is, it wasn’t the tastiest bourbon experience of my life.
Of course, this is partially attributable to the fact that it was Jim Beam. Y’know.
I like to think of Fat Boys as the main characters in a Young Adult fiction series, carefully matched to appeal to the widest-possible demographic. We have something for everyone.