Every pet that's been in my care is either still alive or lived to a ripe old age, with the exception of Lucy who got cancer (not my fault) and some mice who we'd bought cheap then flung into my yard when they showed themselves to be cannibals.
I recently discovered that while I can differentiate wines, I'm of the firm belief that no wine tastes any better or worse than any other wine. Paying for expensive wine is really dumb.
...two of the mice just went to town on the third mouse (from the beginning he'd exhibited a seriously offputting post-Nam type shiver that no doubt drove the other mice nuts) while the fourth mouse, whom I'd fancied their sort of spiritual leader, lay dead in the shared bunker my friend built from broken chopsticks and wood glue.
I didn't know what a beer hat was until I gave one to a recovering alcoholic for his birthday.
When I was 7 I told a Catholic kid who was being mean to me to go to Hell. I have yet to top myself.
It turns out the mouse that died in the bunker was returned to me dead after some friends had borrowed him for a video project and stepped on him accidentally, at which point rather than die he just became recalcitrant, peeing at one point in my friend's eye during a Room 101 closeup shot, all the while concealing what his half-crushing had triggered which was some internal death-clock set to time out in full view of my friends who, being paragons of responsibility, tossed him into the bunker and returned him to me without thinking to mention it.
Door-to-door sales is one of the only jobs movies almost always present with total accuracy. I sold vacuums.
The death of their spiritual leader was, I suspect, what spurred the transformation of the would-be cannibal mice. With it being just the two normal (if philosophically vulnerable) mice and the one totally whacked-out third wheel, their tiny, increasingly cataracted fish tank of a world must have seemed a more and more fitting stage for the savagery that had perhaps always dwelt somewhere in their little hearts.
For a while I was set to be a journalist. Worked at the Daily for a spell. Deciding against that was the best decision I ever made.
Rogain is a commitment! It takes, like, sustained application to get results. I'm talking months. That's a long time to put up with chronic mustache-zone irritation.
In all seriousness, nothing. I'm good at being alright at a lot of things, but they don't send motherfuckers to the Olympics for that shit.
Books. I wish I were better read, but I like me some Vonnegut, DF Wallace, China Mieville, Cormac McCarthy, John Kennedy O'toole, other shit of that ilk.
Food. Fancy food is wasted on me.
Music. Also largely wasted on me. Like plenty of it though.
You share my genuine belief that video games are a fascinating, defensible artistic medium, and that talking about them is fun.
You won't be a dick about the fact that I think so
you have a pack of Cheeze-its; will share them
you aren't planning to rape and murder me