I walked through a yearbook and all I got

was a cigarette scented outfit. Thanks Wausau. The one night I go out, it has to be an informal class reunion full of people I forgot but now am forced to remember. Sure, there's a few exceptions, but the scene as a whole is a nightmare of "how's it goin guy?" and "so whatcha been up to eh?".

And thanks for the awkward stares of how-do-we-know-each-other-and-why-are-we-here mixed with forced catch up talk in the form of checklists.  What are you doing? Where do you live? Who do you hang out with?

Here's where it's fun to liven things up with some tasty bullshit. I love telling the story of being a dogsled racer in Winnipeg.

Distinct detail about your perpetuated career is the key to convincing even the most skeptical of people. My bevy of details were tightly wound up into a lecture on finding the alpha dog and making sure he's in the front of the dogsled pack. If the alpha male doesn't lead, no dog is going to follow.

Why did I lie to people who want to know what I'm doing with my life? Because it's all bull shit. No-one really wants to know what you're doing with your life. They want to know how you're doing with your life and whether they match up or not.

No, I won't play this game of conversational masturbation. I'll sit here in my bright purple "FU" shirt and let you assume what you will.

So why go to the bar? Because, I want everyone to know how well I'm doing.
Dammit.