I don't like wearing pants. I feel that this almost-instantly disqualifies me for any stale office job that could be offered to me. Granted, if one must wear pants, I'll do it, however; under protest.
I don't know where this change happened. Perhaps while vacationing in Florida with my fiance', where I came to the realization that I prefer my legs to breathe, to have room, and to not feel anything close to sweaty (minus the occasion of swamp ass). Swamp ass, for all the ladies out there, is when a man's ass, connected to his grundle-region (or taint, as is the common nomenclature), find themselves resembling something not dissimilar to the southern Louisiana marshes.
Every guy has had this happen to them, so if any guy reading this says "Nope, not me." They are a liar. A filthy, sweaty-grundled liar.
Pants are just something I can live without in my life, especially after my Calvin Kleins ripped during work one day. A $90 pair of jeans that felt like I was wearing a cloud. Gone. Turned into a bingo bag for my aunt. The most expensive bingo bag ever made.
I can honestly see myself wearing shorts at my wedding. And a tropical shirt. Something like that. Maybe not the tropical shirt. Maybe no shirt at all, like my hero Gibby from iCarly.
Every once in a while, I feel the need to read a comic book. Most of the time, it's not superhero related, but occasionally, it is. Lately, I've been devouring Charles Burns' "Black Hole", a story set in the 70's, about STDs that cause insane bodily mutations. Equal parts scary, sad, and beautiful, the comic is really something special, so, anyone looking for a great read without all those bothersome chapters and words getting in the way, pick this comic up off Amazon for twelve bucks, like me.
Alright. Pants and comics. I'm going to finish my delightful oatmeal now.
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