WillgasM

So today I ate lunch at Panda Express. I’m a fan, but it’s not my favorite. The food’s ok and all, but it has other perks. For one, as soon as you walk through the door you’re greeted with, “Herrooo, wercome to paaandaaaa!”. No matter how shitty my day is going, that always cheers me right up. As I said, the food’s ok. I much prefer Chopsticks, and I’d rather support a local business. When you eat at Chopsticks, you see where your money is going; to that dude holding the wok. When you eat at Panda, it’s all going to some corporate office in southern California. Besides, Panda is owned by Ming-tsai’s son or some shit. What does that dude need more money for? But, Panda is faster. Chopsticks is nice, but I’d rather not add 15 minutes to my lunch break. Speaking of chopsticks, that’s another reason I like eating at Panda. I really enjoy eating with chopsticks. I first started using them because it made me eat slower, but that was short-lived. I have mad chopstick skills. I like their tactile nature. There’s something more elegant about picking up your food rather than stabbing and shoveling it. idk, maybe I’m just a snob and they make me feel like I’m better than you. Anyway, I like Panda’s selection. For some reason I feel compelled to mix beef and chicken entrees. I’m sure the world would keep ticking if I ordered two chicken dishes, but I dare not test that theory. I rotate through most of the menu items. The two things I won’t order are also their most popular dishes. I swear, half the people that eat at Panda are only there for chow mein and orange chicken. Bleh. I personally can’t stand it. It’s just not appealing when there are so many more appetizing choices. I almost always get an eggroll to accompany my meal. I used to dip it in sweet and sour, but I’ve grown past that phase. I’m all about the spicy mustard now. If you’ve known me for any period of time, you’ve probably heard me rant about mustard. If not, I’m sure I’ll blog it to you one day. If you take nothing else from my mustard rant, remember this: yellow mustard  is shit. Who the fuck eats that stuff? It would take some major vitamin deficiency to make that stuff palatable. The same kind of deficiency that causes your dog to graze on the lawn and chew up charcoal briquettes. I can’t imagine a flavor so horrid that I would prefer to smother it in mustard. There are, however, numerous exceptions. Brown mustard is pretty damn awesome; sausages wouldn’t be the same without it. Dijon has it’s applications; there are many a sauce and vinaigrette spawned from that jar of Grey Poupon. And relevant to this story, hot chinese mustard; an eggroll’s best friend. Every time I ask for mustard at Panda, they hand me three packs and ask if that’s enough. I shake my head and say ‘yes’ when in reality I’m thinking, “Holy hell, for what could I possibly need this much mustard?” Mind you, these mustard packs are about time and a half the size of your standard packet portion. If you really eat that much mustard, your eggroll is more of a mustard transportation device than a food item. At that point you might as well save the money and just ask for a spoon instead. Needless to say, I have leftover packets of mustard at the end of my meal. So what do you do with the leftover packets when you’re done eating? I’m not about to throw it away. That’d be a slap in the face to all those starving children in Detroit. I would leave it on the table, but then someone else will probably just come along and throw it away. So I do the only rational thing and stick it in my pocket. I’ll just throw it in my glovebox or something. One day when I’m trapped in a snowbank, I might survive a couple extra days off the sauce packs and fortune cookies stashed in my seats. This mustard packet, however, never made it to the glovebox. It was forgotten in my pocket. I didn’t think anything of it until several hours later when I reached for my phone and *squish* Now that’s an interesting sensation. You should really try it sometime. You wouldn’t believe how many paper towels it takes to clean a packet’s worth of mustard out of your pocket. I also found several new crevices to my phone. It’s still kinda sticky and smells delicious. When I started writing this, I’m pretty sure I had a point. I guess the obvious lesson is “don’t stash mustard in your pocket”. If I learned anything deeper from spending half a day smelling like spicy mustard, it’s this: Pockets are pretty cool. They hold on to all your shit. Sometimes they hold important things like keys and wallets, and sometimes they hold a handful of loose mustard. Let go of the unimportant shit while you can, or you’ll wind up cleaning metaphorical mustard out of your phone. Because even with all our futuristic cargo pant technology, pockets are numbered. You can only carry so much shit around with you before it becomes a burden, so leave room for the important things.

I swear it was you; sitting at the tables outside my apartment. As I started my car I saw you round the corner as if you were looking for me, but you quickly gave up and went back to whatever you were doing. I should’ve stopped. I should’ve gotten out of my car and said hello. But i didn’t. You looked great. You always look great. Maybe it wasn’t you. It wouldn’t be the first time I thought I saw you. I swear it was real though. I swear it was you.

As you may know, the festing season is upon us yet again. On the second Saturday in September, the second most alliterative day of the year (after the first Friday of February but before the third Thursday of Throctober), the quaint townfolk of Cranfills Gap, TX take to the streets. Donning wolf t-shirts and Dale Earnhardt (Jr) caps and fueled by cheap, domestic beer; this town of barely 300 is transformed into a party of 350 or so. You start the day off with a parade. Have you ever wanted to be in a parade? Well, you could probably be in this one. Seriously, just pay a friend to push you through in a wheelbarrow. So long as you throw lots of candy to the children, you’ll be a hit. Just make sure you’re not behind the horses; There’s another guy with a wheelbarrow for that. The parade is usually an amusing blend of antique cars, antique tractors, antique horses, kids on bikes, Miss BlahBlahBlah, and cheerleaders by the trailer load. Once the parade has run its course, most people will amble down to the park. There you can peruse the various crafts and home made jams, dissuade your children from wasting money on novelty items from a wholesale catalog, and try on a flattering bandanna or two. Eventually you’ll make your way into the cook-off area where you’ll be pressured into eating animals you’ve only ever encountered on the highway. Did you know grizzly bear tastes an awful lot like vomit? People vote for their favorites with little raffle ticket thingies. These go toward the “people’s choice” winner. Later, some sort of electoral college gets together to decide who gets the big trophy. Having sat in on these proceedings in years past, I can tell you it’s kind of funny to watch people apply wine tasting formality to a grilled hunk of raccoon. If you’re not into mystery protein, there are other options for sustenance. The park offers various other delectables usually served on either a bun or a stick. While you eat, a chorus of debonair old crooners will regale you with both kinds of music: country AND western. If you didn’t get enough to eat (or weren’t appetized by stick meat), now’s about the time to hit up The Toad. It’s right on main street; You were probably standing in front of it during the parade. On your way back, go check out the car show. If you’re a gearhead, this is a definite must. New and old, restored and rat; I promise you’ll see something you like. I know shiny things can be distracting, but you were on a mission. The Horny Toad is the town watering hole. It’s a great place to get a quesadilla before you start drinking too heavily. If you think the place looks less like a bar and more like a feed store, then you should’ve seen it back when it WAS a feed store. There’s probably a line of Harley’s out front at this point, but don’t worry; It’s family friendly. Have a few drinks and BS with the locals. If you’re from the area, you’re sure to see someone you know. If you’re a foreigner, now’s a good time to make some friends so you’ll know someone next year. Pace yourself, this is a marathon. The official festivities may be dwindling down, but the fun’s just getting started. You should probably take a nap. Honestly, it’s hot as hell and that beer’s not really helping. Go, rest, get showered up, put on some spiffy duds and meet me back here when it gets good and dark. Leave the kids with a sitter, but bring your girlfriend. Oh, and tell her to bring her girlfriends too. Me and my friends are all single…and handsome….and charming…and rich. Yeah, tell them that; Whatever gets them to The Toad. I’m sure you can find your way around from here. There’s the bar, there’s the bathrooms, you met all these people earlier today. Just relax and have fun. I’m gonna step out on the patio. There’s a chick out there that looks like she digs dudes like me. I’ll catch ya later

So…today felt normal enough. I did take the day off work. That’s a little unusual, but I’ve been trying to actually use some of my vacation time. I didn’t have anything planned; nothing special to do. For me, taking a vacation day has less to do with a day off and more to do with heavy drinking the night before. So I’ve mostly just been ambling about the apartment, picking up some of the computer parts and such that have been piling up on the floor, and doing a couple loads of laundry so I’ll actually have pants to wear to work tomorrow. While I’m waiting for my clothes to dry, I get a serious urge for a Cherry Lime Pepsi. While staring at the soda fountain I’m reading the sign with the refill prices and decide that maybe I should invest in a giant, 100oz insulated mug. Granted I’ve been trying to ween myself of high fructose corn syrup, but I also realize that I break down often enough to make this deal worth while. Plus, I’m saving the world from styrofoam cups. I grab a mug and fill it up, which is kinda tricky since it doesn’t really fit under the nozzle. Luckily the Pepsi spout is right at the end so I’m able to tactically tilt the mug to allow for maximum fillage (yes i realize “fillage” isn’t a word). I’m at the cashier trying to pay for my sweet mug of ambrosia, but the cashier is having trouble ringing it up since there are no UPCs on these giant mugs. I’m in no hurry, so I stand and wait as he calls the manager to ask for advice on the apparently rare situation. As I’m waiting, in walks a spicy little latin number. She walks straight up to the counter, presumably to buy a pack of smokes. She’s a bit giggly as she says hello to me and nervously begins playing with all the various energy shots and minithins that line the counter. Though the store is wide open, she’s practically rubbing against me as we stand in line. I remind you, I’m in the middle of doing laundry. That means I’m dressed like a total mook which only adds to the fact that I’m holding this gargantuan mug of soda. Yet, this girl is still giving me eyes that usually translate to something like “close your tab, and let’s get out of here.” The cashier finally figures out how to work the register, so I swipe my card and gather my provisions. I give the girl one last smile before I turn to leave. Walking in at the same moment, I meet the boyfriend. The only reason I know it’s her boyfriend is because he seems pissed at me for no apparent reason. He tries to gather some bass in his voice as he gives me the typical “sup brah” and stands chest-to-chest with me. Unintimidated by his totally sick Affliction shirt, I manage to choke my laughter to a mere snicker as I roll my eyes and proceed out the door. Still a little taken back, I make my way across the parking lot to my Rolla. I set my mug atop the car as I unlock the door, when I hear a “hey baby” from the car behind me. I ignore it at first assuming it’s just someone talking on the phone, but when I hear it the second time I turn to investigate. In the car just behind me is a moderately attractive girl, leaning out of her window staring intently at me. I say moderately attractive because the bags under her eyes told me that she was working on at least a 3-day meth binge, but she was otherwise “doable”. I gave her a nod, still unsure why she was making small talk with me. Without hesitation she asked, “How much?” Having nothing to sell but my giant mug of soda (which I wasn’t about to part with); I reply, “For what?” still a bit confused. Sensing my obvious naivety for this situation she responds with a smile on her face, “for me!” I’m not terribly attracted to the crack-head look, so I have to decline; but also being the sweet guy that I am, I don’t want to break a hooker’s heart. During my hesitation to answer; she again smiles and asks, “are you really that surprised?” In fact, I was at least that surprised. I try to think of a gentle excuse not to solicit this prostitute. I’m in the middle of washing clothes, but that sounds too much like an invitation to come over. I only have five dollars cash on me, but I’m afraid that might be enough. Just as I’m running out of ideas she chimes in, “it’s your wife, isn’t it?” DING! I guess it hadn’t occurred to me that it’s ok to lie to a whore, so I just nod and try my best to look disappointed. So, on what was supposed to be a relatively uneventful day: I met an attractive girl that was obviously digging me, had a brief run-in with her boyfriend, and then was solicited for sex in the parking lot. To make a long story short, I should have cut my hair a long time ago.

my nipples are incredibly sensitive right now. It all started while I was doing laundry. I had just moved a couple loads to the dryer, when I realized I felt a might bit peckish. So I set out about town in the rolla, unsure where my appetite may take me. I drove up and down valley, hit the circle and went down lasalle, and finally cruised university before I settled on Taco Cabana. I really wanted to get something at the drive thru since I was in the middle of laundry and barely dressed, but the salsa bar and margaritas are tough to pass up. So I went in and ordered my usual (3 enchilada dinner with a large mararita). After receiving my order and loading up on sauces, cilantro, pico, etc; I decided to sit on the patio. I’m really not sure why. I guess since most places don’t have a patio I try to utilize them when available. So there I am, T-shirt, shorts, shoes with no socks, on the windy-ass patio drinking a frozen margarita. I made it through my meal with no problems, but as I was finishing my margarita I became a bit chilled. I gulped down what was left in my glass and hopped into my warm, sunny car. Here it is thirty minutes later, and my nipples have finally come down from painfully erect to overly-sensitive. Just blow on them and they stand right back up.

I’m not sure why I felt like telling you about them.