I was minding my own business on Facebook–an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one–when I noticed a new picture of my cousin had popped up in my newsfeed. It was of her and her boyfriend, a froggish looking fellow in a trucker cap. She had mud all over her face and looked exhilarated to be with the man she loved. He looked bored. Due to the mud on her face, I wrote what any obnoxious cousin would write: “not sure if mud or if taken after dirty sex act”. I was understandably pleased with myself.
Until, fifteen minutes later, I realized that she hadn’t uploaded the photo. Her boyfriend had, and she was only tagged in it. I had alluded to anal sex on the timeline of a complete stranger.
Thankfully, he hadn’t yet commented on it. I frantically rushed to my computer, found the post, and deleted my comment. Of course, I have to wonder what his reaction would have been.
Now for the second anecdote.
The day before yesterday was my birthday, which I think I have now mentioned in at least three posts. It’s time I stop. Anyway, some friends and I went to San Francisco for the St. Patrick’s Day parade, which, because SF is a backwards city, was held on the 15th and not the 17th. I went with a group of friends who were, for the most part, close friends, except two boys named Jack who were awkward friends of a friend.
It turned out that our entire high school and about three others had also decided to take the ferry into the city. There were so many people that a second ferry had to come pick us all up. All of them were half naked, and slightly drunk…at ten in the morning. It was a rather impressive feat.
Being sober, we did not have fun in the mass of people on the ferry boat.
We weren’t entirely sure where the parade was, but were confident we could find it by following the trail of empty beer bottles. But after a 20 minute boat ride with the parade-goers, we decided we’d be better off going to Chinatown.
Where we had a great time. But since average dining experiences and window shopping are boring, I’m going to skip to the exciting part.
We decided to walk to the top of Telegraph Hill. Or rather, I decided to walk to the top of Telegraph Hill and nobody disagreed with me because it was my birthday. It may have been the dumbest decision of my life (see 4 Problems With Exercise). We puffed halfway up the hill, a group of teens at the pinnacle of youth and fitness, but we could not take it, we were positively asthmatic.
At which point a pregnant woman marched past us. We were chagrined. But I’ll bet we could have gone faster than her down the stairs.