I’ve learned that the reason why going out to eat tastes so much more delicious than anything I’ve ever made in a kitchen is because they cover everything in butter. Why does my prize tuna steak gleam in the sunlight? Because Mrs. Butterworth stuck it between her butt cheeks before it was served to me.
The pictures were standard, the usual still shots of us laughing together like we were in an Olive Garden commercial (“Spicy Alfredo with Shrimp! Oh, what a silly order!”). But what was curious was that in every single photo, one of my friends was making the Duck Face.
You flashback to nightmares of a weed whacker chained to your arm with your finger permanently glued to a pulled back trigger. Your whole body cringes as
bits of shredded poison ivy explode all around you, painting your legs, arms, and face like blood.
He’s probably in a fight with his significant other, sending out text messages the size of novellas, filled with several hundreds of frowny faces, hearts, and all the other traditional fixins of humiliating emotional text messaging.
And after I defriend them, I wonder to myself, is “YOLO” really about going downtown, taking pictures of yourself getting (or pretending to get) plastered, and blacking out in a pool of your own vomit in a public bathroom?
You’ll hear yourself say things like, “Bro, when you were doing those skull crushers in the gym yesterday, you totally had some sweet little muscles on the back of your arm that totally compliment the definition of your tris.”