So I go out for some shit, and I figure I’ll stop at the liquor store and somewhere for dinner on the way back. So I go in and make for the beer case, and they don’t have any six-packs of Budweiser in bottles. Cans, but at that point I may as well be drinking sewage as far as taste goes. They did, however, have twenty-packs. And it’s not until I walk out the door, 240 fluid ounces of fun under my arm, that I realize that I can’t fit this in my backpack, much less carry all that weight without my bag, back, or both giving out. Fortunately, it’s Bud, so it was worth hiking home (only a quarter mile, tops) with this huge-ass box balanced on my bike seat. And you know everyone who saw me was thinking “small wonder that slob doesn’t have a car.” Which, I admit, was a welcome change from “ZOMG long-haired potsmoker,” even if the latter is slightly more accurate.

Lessons learned today: Ask if they have some goddamned six-packs, or just skip the Bud for now. Also, I have a six-pack of Mike’s in my bag which I really should get into the fridge. Fuck you, procrastination!