It's Not Your Personality, It's Your Back Fat
Dear Internet,
I write to you from Geneve, Switzerland, full of regret that I didn’t actually bring you with me this time. I know I said I would, and I’m sorry. But I often say a lot of silly shit that I don’t mean. Like when I say, “Your ass looks great in those jeans,” or “I’m sorry.”
In my defense however, airport security has been looser than your sister, so the challenge of smuggling you in with my lube of toothpaste would’ve netted you a free, unhindered journey to this beautiful city. This is a circuitous sentence. It hurts you more than it hurts me.
I have only been here in Geneve for one day and already the food here makes the food in the south of France look like kitten chow. The fruit, my God the fruit. We began dinner with a colourful plate of prosciutto-wrapped fresh fruit. Only to be followed by a mouth-watering ‘Swiss welcome’ main course of grilled Ostrich atop a spicy mustard glaze flanked with fresh vegetables. There was some other shit on the plate too, kinda like hash browns, but more difficult to cut with a fork. Like trying to separate a triple Carbon bond.
Back to the fruit. The pastries they topped them with? Mutha. Fu*ka. I thought of you. Not for long. But I thought of you.
However, it’s been raining like a bitch and in the low teens Celsius. And coming from the high 20’s – low 30’s with a light breeze off the Mediterranean has been rough. Speaking of rainy bitches, the French food has made my stool as hard as diamonds. Upgrading me to a suite with audio / video entertainment in my bathroom does not make up for the pain and humiliation of passing a diamond the size of a banana through a hole as wide as a finger.
Yet I remain strong. Emotionally. And optimistic. Cause I know you’re near to me. Not geographically though. Hell, you’re not even close geographically and again, I’m sorry about that. But I know you’re near. Which makes me kinda sorry I used the ‘wide as a finger’ reference.
Love,
Stick
I write to you from Geneve, Switzerland, full of regret that I didn’t actually bring you with me this time. I know I said I would, and I’m sorry. But I often say a lot of silly shit that I don’t mean. Like when I say, “Your ass looks great in those jeans,” or “I’m sorry.”
In my defense however, airport security has been looser than your sister, so the challenge of smuggling you in with my lube of toothpaste would’ve netted you a free, unhindered journey to this beautiful city. This is a circuitous sentence. It hurts you more than it hurts me.
I have only been here in Geneve for one day and already the food here makes the food in the south of France look like kitten chow. The fruit, my God the fruit. We began dinner with a colourful plate of prosciutto-wrapped fresh fruit. Only to be followed by a mouth-watering ‘Swiss welcome’ main course of grilled Ostrich atop a spicy mustard glaze flanked with fresh vegetables. There was some other shit on the plate too, kinda like hash browns, but more difficult to cut with a fork. Like trying to separate a triple Carbon bond.
Back to the fruit. The pastries they topped them with? Mutha. Fu*ka. I thought of you. Not for long. But I thought of you.
However, it’s been raining like a bitch and in the low teens Celsius. And coming from the high 20’s – low 30’s with a light breeze off the Mediterranean has been rough. Speaking of rainy bitches, the French food has made my stool as hard as diamonds. Upgrading me to a suite with audio / video entertainment in my bathroom does not make up for the pain and humiliation of passing a diamond the size of a banana through a hole as wide as a finger.
Yet I remain strong. Emotionally. And optimistic. Cause I know you’re near to me. Not geographically though. Hell, you’re not even close geographically and again, I’m sorry about that. But I know you’re near. Which makes me kinda sorry I used the ‘wide as a finger’ reference.
Love,
Stick
