I moved into the city a week and a half ago, and I thought about titling a post "My Big Movement," but that was pretty easy to abandon, with its scatological implications. Plus, if you write about something that is actually important, it gets gay real fast. At least that's what I tell myself as I write super-important super-gay entries in my diary before I cry myself to sleep.
An anonymous commenter suggested that I blog again, and I was 65% tempted to tell him to fuck himself, since he has told me before that I blog like a pussy, or something like that. But then I remembered that his pubes are golden and honestly remind me of Aslan's mane, and I thought, "how can you deny that?" So, you're welcome, Jake.
As I waited for the train today, I couldn't help noticing the bald black guy on the other platform brushing his hair with a lint remover. You know what I'm talking about: those double-edged felt things that you see rich dudes in movies use on their suits -- only not the rolly ones, the slidy ones. So here this guy was, brushing hair that was maybe a quarter inch long, and going at it intensely, switching hands and smoothing with the free hand, switching hands and stroking and smoothing again. And he went at it assiduously for a good six minutes (I timed him). Had he just come out of the dryer or what? How do you get a black man to stop jumping on the bed? Sprinkle dust in his hair and hand him a lint remover. Simple.
In conclusion, I would like to offer you this horrific joke. Stop reading if you have any decency. How is a gay man like shoes from the clearance rack? Neither one comes in a box.
Shut up, I was already leaving.