That moment when…

…you walk into a coffee shop and the door’s hinges are too lose and the thing hits you in the back as you enter. Fantastic entrance. Things happen in these moments. Maybe someone (or everyone) already inside saw it happen and is waiting for your cue to figure out whether they’ll laugh at you or feel your pain and write a strongly worded letter to the coffee shop hinge installers to defend your honor.  Do you immediately seize up, soak up whatever pain you’ve just been inflicted with, check yourself out for wounds you may have sustained (both to body and to pride), search suddenly for anyone who may still be looking at you, and blush? Or do you, upon getting hit by the door, whirl around and go thug-licious back on the door? How dare that thing mess with someone like you?! If only more of your crew were here to have your back, maybe it wouldn’t have done that… or maybe you treat the door nicely, because unlike your crew, IT was the one that literally just had your back… deep things… very important… I think I’m going to set an alarm on my phone for some time this weekend so that I can remember to meditate on this for at least an hour. If that’s not a worthwhile way to spend some time then I have no clue what I’m going to do for the rest of my life.

Mops are disgusting. I say this from experience, and from inexperience (maybe I’ve just been using them incorrectly the whole time? Very possible.) I have used the ol’ ragamuffin-nasty-yarn style ones before and I feel like I’m doing little more than dipping Snuffleupagus into a tub of death and awkwardly scooting him around. Surely the floor isn’t getting clean is it? If it is, it can’t be the Snuffy … it must have something to do with what I’m dipping him in. I feel as though if I were to spill any of that stuff on myself… I’d have the same reaction as Christopher Lloyd in Who Framed Roger Rabbit, where he ended up… spoiler alert… he melted in acid. I wonder if there has ever been, or will ever be, a culture that uses acid on their bodies to clean themselves. Doesn’t seem likely, but far be it from me to doubt something so terrible.

Why do people want to kill time so much? What the hell has time ever done to them?! If time heals all wounds, then why have so many people I know died from old age?

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