Well, it was the warmest it had been in months, and as with most unusually warm days, it brought with it a predictable feeling of obligation to go to the beach. It's not that I mind the beach, I usually enjoy myself there, but going to the beach in Santa Barbara makes me feel as though I'm in some real estate agent's dream that they had whilst passed out drunk in a circus. I dunno, maybe that's just me. I judge how long it's been since I've been to the beach by evaluating the intensity of my tan lines, and mine were shaping up to the point where it looked like they were aspiring to appear as an epic battle between a six-legged polar bear and the Bee Gees (not really, but I've been wanting to type that all day). Needless to say I was shangheid into going due to both the "really-fucking-scary-and-unnatural-tan-o-meter", and the fact that my friend had promised me ice cream if I went with him. Matias you clever bastard.
As an optimist, my tan lines are gone. On the flipside, I look like a hellborn lobster with a rash. Advanced to lvl 3 White Kid, hellz yeah. Ahem... I regret to inform the reader that my brain has pooped out... actually it would be more accurate to compare it to a spontaneous diarrhetic explosion of hoplessly flailing thoughts. Fuck, I thought I was actually going somewhere with this post, but it appears to be another premature wilting of a thought process (could be interpreted as a bad boner joke; just think real hard and believe, it'll come to you eventually (goddammit! there's another one! (I'm honestly not trying to do this, they just keep popping up! (dammit! (WHEN WILL THE PARENTHESIS END?! (Fuck this.) ) ) ) ) ).
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