This is going to be a weekend of legend. I said shit would be epic, and there is some serious epic shit going down. We're setting the world record for the biggest pie fight. There's going to be Guinness officials there and everything. And then after getting all good and smeary in the afternoon, I've got to book it back to Chicago for the World Naked Bike Ride. I ain't gonna be naked, but I know about 1,500 other people will be. Work. It.
Oh, nevermind. That's right. I almost forgot. I'm not going to be doing those things, because Poppy died last night, and I have a wake and funeral to attend.
Asshole. I saw him on Sunday because I thought my dad would have a heart attack if I didn't, and I looked at him laying there and thought, "Oh, shit. He's going to die, and I'm not gonna be able to do the fucking Pie Fight."
Is it bad that I would rather not go? That I would rather hang out with friends who actually give a shit about me, doing things that I've been excited about for months? That the only reason I'm even considering going is because I cannot stand the thought of disappointing my dad?
I am about ninety-seven percent sure that I want to get drunk.