Break A Leg

Two words for you would-be teachers:
R.W. & Co.
However many words that is.
Technically, none.
Big boy clothing throughout the whole store.
Sick cardigans with cool piping.
And the male employees all have erect nipples.
A great place.
I went clothes shopping with Peter White and Jeff Elliot.
A pair of comic vagabonds, I spent a fair amount of Saturday with them.
Including Saturday night, which I had assured Peter before his arrival, would involve us getting drunk.
Which happened ten-fold.
Outside of Christian's at about 4a.m., and then wherever else I found myself.
I slept on couch cushions on a section of floor.
I spent the entirity of Sunday wishing that Peter White hadn't been in town.
Typical, if you know him.
Some woman with a baby was with us for a part of the evening.
With Evan.
It was Evan's birthday.
Evan wasn't the baby, by the way.
He's some dude who has likely been suckered into caring for the baby.
Her baby had a broken femur at one point.
That's the leg bone that horses get shot over if they break them.
We watched a number of middle-aged people dance and try to have sex with one another.
I hit the floor with a tall, 30-something homely woman.
And a shorter, squatter, more sexually aggressive friend of hers.
That's it.
That's everything I have the energy to describe right now.
Oh, I found my phone, also.
Don't worry about that.
It was in the cab.