Clubs Are Not A Poor, Short Man’s Game:
Clubs are my personal Afghanistan. I’m a Hinge 5’10, and a realistic 5’8. The only way I can possibly take a girl home is through my personality, and I don’t make enough money to sit at a table flexing a watch worth a Cleveland Home Depot employee’s annual income. Unless you are going to a club with the intention of JK Rolling-face and getting really into the music, odds are if you make less than 100 grand and you’re shorter than five-eleven, clubs are a waste of fucking money. It costs a security deposit for a cocktail, and the girls that will come to your table if you’re lucky enough to know a promoter will go full Dad hitting the convenience store once that Titos bottle runs dry. If you’re like 5’9 with sixty bucks in your pocket, and you decide the “move” is going to a club, just know you’re pulling an Angel Hernandez because that’s the wrong fucking call.
Buy An Air Fryer:
The air fryer is objectively a better invention than the bicycle. You get the crispness of the oven, the convenience of the microwave, and it’s easier to clean than the product of four lemon drop shots and a frisky Uber ride on a girl’s tummy. I promise you if you’re a student or you work from home, you’ll use this thing at least twice a day. Trader Joe’s frozen aisle is Shaq, and this is your Kobe. Will your diet have too much sodium in it? Probably. But who gives a fuck? It’s yummy as hell.
Getting A Dog:
I’m a year into having a dog, and it’s made me realize I’m so far away from wanting a kid. Getting a dog was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life. She makes me go outside for at least an hour and fifteen minutes every day, she’s helped me get my shit together, and except for dropping piles, she’s cute as hell. That being said, a dog is not a Webkinz, and a lot of your life will change once you have one. Are you prepared to wake up at nine AM still drunk to take it outside? Are you comfortable missing out on Bonnaroo this year? Are you willing to make your living arrangements around this thing that licks its own ass? These are the questions we must ask ourselves before making this decision. I’m not saying the person with a big dog in downtown Manhattan is Mohamed Atta; I’m just saying the dog would probably be happier elsewhere.
Nobody’s Job Description Will Make Any Sense:
I’ll be talking with one of my friends whose getting a job as a security-analyst-consultant-fluffer-via the Chicago Mercantile Exchange-specializing-in-the-trades-of-the-bisexual-Phillipino-wheat-market. Just say fucking finance.
