Last night, I dreamed that Adam and I were at a resort somewhere in Santa Barbara, when a fire broke out in the distance. Naturally, we were worried about our house, but we couldn't go investigate because the valet parking staff was nowhere to be found. You know you're a Southern Californian when....
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Me: [Blah blah blah about certain other people's horseshitty behavior.]
Mom: I’m proud of you for not losing control and smacking sense into them. Because, you know, patience and tolerance are not your main virtues.
Me: And where do you think I get that from?
Mom: Me!
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My birthday isn't till November, but you can always order it now and hold onto it.
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Like any sensible person, I despise the current president of the United States. Ever since he was elected, I've wondered how we can (figuratively!) hit him where it hurts. The man cares only about his own name and standing, so I propose that from now on, everyone opposed to his administration refer to the toilet and/or bathroom as the Trump. "Excuse me, can you direct me to the Trump?" "Man, I shouldn't have eaten that meatball sub. I need to use the Trump." "That was the nastiest public Trump I've seen in a long time." If enough of us do it, the brand name, such as it is, will be nothing more than a joke.
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While at a McDonald's the other day—it was a hunger emergency, and we were in San Luis Obispo—I was delighted by this monitor showing whose order was ready and whose was still getting prepared. Progress! But then I realized I had ordered at 10:29 a.m. instead of waiting one minute, when fries became available. I've said it before: Why doesn't McDonald's offer fries at breakfast?
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