With a heavy sigh, I return from yet another extended vacation from my blog. A furlough from extracting the funny from ordinary moments. A sabbatical from analyzing this life that is all mine.
Here's what you missed:
My Gay and I committed a federal offense when we stole a huge box that had been sitting in front of what we used to refer to as The Meth Lab. It was a neighboring townhome occupied by
drug dealers community college students who would throw barbeques at midnight and their girlfriends, unsteady in their stilettos and skinny jeans, would point their camera phones to the sky and take pictures of clouds. They were evicted but soon thereafter, a large package arrived at their door. And there is sat, taunting me. For months I would walk by and look at it from afar wondering what could possibly be inside. Black tar heroin maybe? A baby monkey perhaps? Tea cups from Grandma? What the fuck?? Finally, I couldn't take it any longer. I enlisted My Gay into my dirty crime world and together we walked moved like Ninja warriors, grabbed the box and ran like girls disappeared like thieves in the night. With fingers crossed in hopes of discovering a year's supply of Xanax or at the very least a case of wine, we dug into the box and found .... a fucking ham. A six month old ham, dammit.
Later that night we took our two-person crime wave to a gay bar and got ridiculously drunk and made fun of a man who looked like he had hookers in his basement.
Not exactly Bonnie and Clyde but it's hard to be super bad ass gangsters with ABBA dominating the scene. It's not exactly the soundtrack for criminals. Next time, we're going hardcore. Like Pet Shop Boys hardcore.
Sometimes you're better off dead. There's a gun in your hand and it's pointing at your head ...