It’s official. You’re awesome.
Well, you don’t say.
What was that energy?
I can’t quite grasp it.
A little old, confused by the new.
The new, confused by whatever is old.
Hard to follow.
There was you… that girl who was nice, but you already forgot her name. Her fiancé’s name is Wilbur. You know this because she was tracking his every move on her cell phone and telling everyone.
I saw you, Mom. It was me, chillin’ under the huge birdcage collage of ME. Which, by the way, was a little obsessive even when I was around. But seriously, lady, I am here to tell you: let go a little. It’s embarrassing me.
I’m not even there to defend myself in the bikini pic. You know, I smiled, but I felt a little bloated. I am enjoying no photos—only landscapes. Way easier to keep up… especially my looks.
I was watching you during the party, and you did great. You just kept laughing. It was funny bullshit that no one—truly no one—should be talking about, which makes it a very you party, Mom.
For instance, that time I shit my pants before a concert. My now-wife, then-girlfriend and I were on our first trip together. She was in the shower and wanted me to leave the door closed, so I ran to the lobby as fast as I could. They had no public bathrooms. You had to use the one in your room.
So I went to the snack room and took a shit in there, but I had already kinda shit my pants. I went back to the room, changed my pants, and we went to the concert. She was suspicious but didn’t find out till later. But she says she knew…
That was a pretty good shit story.
The best stories of the night had to be of your good friend kicking bitches’ asses, including grown men. She is a beast.
Funny thing was, though, Mom, you did not chime in.
No stories were coming from you…
Because Brooks 