Throw me in the river

Matt Klopp is in town, visiting from the splendor of New York City. I don't know if it's really splendid up there, but it sounds like he is making money and having a time. I don't remember when my watch beeped. It might have been at Newton's where I got one Hop Devil. I actually barely want to talk about that. My watch also might have beeped while we took a break to goof around outside the Brandywine River Museum. Or it could have beeped in between.

Remember when I said I smoked weed in my van with a random girl from a bar? Well I wanted to see if she was working: she was. I really might as well have had a beer under a bridge somewhere, because I don't have the nerve to talk to a girl anyway. "She seemed busy?" Or maybe just not then. I'm a real wordy acrobat in plenty of less important scenarios. Here's how I played this one: met a girl at a bar who was really cool to talk to - she leaves with me in my van knowing full well that it's my house and we're going to smoke weed and who knows what. We talk about stuff and have a good time. Great! So I should go back and engage in further conversation at minimum, but instead I wait for weeks before showing up and don't say a word. Just like I might do if I hated her guts rather than wanted her company. I'm not upset at this, but not simply amused either. My feelings are in between. As I put it before, most people's skin is a tight package containing blood and guts and fat and gore. My skin covers a bunch of fluffy teddy bears, and sometimes you might as well just throw me in the river.