Jack Daniels for the soul

My relationship began as most do: with butterflies, feeling on top of the world whenever his hand brushed mine, melting whenever I smelled his cologne, adoring every word he said, and smiling whenever someone said his name. There were so many firsts all at once, it was like a love-bomb: first date, first kiss, first time we said the L word, the first time he stayed at my house, first time I met his family, and the first time we farted in front of each other (my favourite first).

Four years later, we’re engaged and living together, and things have naturally changed. We have all but run out of firsts. The butterflies are present but not nearly as frequent; whenever someone says his name, I’m like ‘yeah, ok’; and the conversation isn’t exactly adorable. Often I find him giving me a detailed description of the shit he just took, or telling me why tomato sauce should be a food group. Continue reading

Be My Jay

A lesson learnt about romanticising the loser/stoner:

I have this distinct memory of being 15 years old and watching Mallrats for the first time. I soon became obsessed. I’d watch the Jay and Silent Bob films almost daily. It wasn’t the college humour or over-used stereotypical stoner jokes that pulled at the strings of my young heart; it was the talkative Jay’s sweet golden tresses. Something about his permanently reddened half-baked eyes, raspy voice, adorably rosy lips and the blonde hair poking out under his black beanie was extremely appealing to me. I became infatuated. I would plaster pictures of a Led Zeppelin-era Robert Plant around my room, watch Dazed and Confused and Lords of Dog Town almost religiously, and try to get my little suburban teen hands on the green substance (which, often times, did not lead to very positive experiences).
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