i almost just signed up for an account on theatlantic.com so i could comment on a pretty articulate rich dude who talked about his childrens' schools being free of "ghetto people," but otherwise being very racially mixed.
but all would have said was, "Dude, 'ghetto people?' For real?" and then maybe double commented with, "Go fuck yourself, bro." and then that would have been a really dumb thing.
Last night I used the term "blood money" in a political debate, and today embarrassment replaced the angry conviction. You should never get incensed and raise your voice and lecture your father about blood money. You should Instagram pictures of his nice things and take phone calls during peak conversation opportunities.
my big point of pragmatic debate was always assassinate or pie to the face (which will accomplish what we need??), and then i saw a picture of him on gawker with two dogs he'd painted (poodles or something (gross)), and he was smiling like a big boy who'd done it all on his own, zipped up his fly and flushed the toilet and turned around with his hands in the sink, "oh you caught me off guard in my shiningest moment", and i wanted to hug him because it might be ok.
I sat in Dominique's kitchen, at the kitchen table, when her older sister, Stephanie, our collective babysitter, said "Left Eye closes her eyes when she sings. What a bitch."
After that, we called a bunch of sex line numbers and 1-800-FAT-HUNK played, "Are you horny? I know I am. It comes from one of those, oh, those things between your legs," to my nine year old ears. We called it back at least three more times.
I think that was when Waterfalls came out, and it made me feel so sad. I think Stephanie might have been a total asshole.
you feel like an asshole for publicly worrying about losing your keys. Afterwards, it seeps into your life as you begin to formulate the social equations necessary for recovering the important. What the fuck happened to your Dominicks Fresh Values card?