Twenty-seven is way too old to be making a rookie mistake like this. Also I’m on Tylenol 3′s while writing this, so please forgive me if I make a spelling and or grammar mistake (I heard the internet is good for not doing that anyways).
Cans were $4 at the bar last night. I mean that is never really how a pleasant story ever starts. “Cans were $4 and then we all went to the orphanage to read to the kids.” It’s always more like “Cans were $4 and now Mike and Doug don’t speak to each other.” “Cans were $4 and now I’m not allowed back to the water park.” So after a night of drinking and discussing who would win in a fight Andre the Giant or Anderson Silva with my friend Dylan, we decided it was probably best to just go home. And then we had a couple more. Anyways, I digress, I got home and was jonesin’ for this delicious bacon, jalapeño with butter sauce spaghetti thing I make.
After I put the bacon in the oven I went to my room to watch a little Fresh Prince of Bel-Air while it cooked. Well, as any long time fan of the show knows, that shit’s engrossing. I realize 13 minutes had gone by, so I make a dash to the kitchen to rescue my bacon and I may have been too eager because a heaping amount of bacon grease that was hotter than Will Smith’s first basketball season at Bel-Air Prep (seriously, is there anything better than that show?) lands on my hand. It was my non-dominate hand thankfully so I can still…write cursive.
So I immediately run it under cold water which doesn’t feel like it’s making a difference so I decide to finish making my meal and eat it out of some sort of misplaced rage towards the bacon. Hospital was fun, everyone was nice. I may end up having a scar that would warrant me auditioning to be a Spider-Man villain.
This story has no moral, but it does have a nice picture.