Things at the Splat are getting real weird
⚡️Orange Justice ⚡️
Look at him go!!
the splashes from previous attempts…this is one dedicated boy
All Sweats Are Off
Dear Target,
Today, I bought a brand new pair of your beautiful, plush, sweats. I rushed home, took off the tags, threw them on, and cozied up to watch FENCES starring Denzel Washington. Why? Because I wanted to watch an American Tragedy.
I DID NOT BARGAIN ON BECOMING ONE.
The relationship between a woman and her most comfortable sweats is a sacred one. In many cases we wear our sweats when we’re at our most vulnerable: covered in a light dusting of Doritos. Our hair is up, our makeup is off, our defenses down. My sweatpants give me comfort, coverage, and occasionally serve as a napkin.
But not today.
As Denzel was giving the best self-directed performance I’ve ever seen, I felt an airy current drift up my nether regions. “Confusing,” I thought. But returned back to the film.
Then, as Viola Davis’ snot poured down her face while she “exhumed the dead,” I was interrupted by yet ANOTHER AIRY BREEZE.
Officially concerned. I sucked the Dorito dust from my fingers, placed my chips and dip on the coffee table, and paused the film to investigate my breezy bottom. What I discovered, no trusting woman would ever have suspected.
MY SWEATPANTS HAD RIPPED IN TWAIN DOWN MY CROTCH AND I HAD BEEN SITTING THERE WATCHING AUGUST WILSON’S FENCES WITH MY BEAVER TO THE BREEZE.
Let me tell you what is awful: buying a brand new pair of pants, perfectly intact, taking off all their tags, sitting motionless on a couch, and having them disintegrate ON DAY ONE. This was a betrayal that only Viola’s character could understand.
Target. I expect more of you. And I expect more from sweatpants.
Good game. Good game. Good game. Good game.
When you’re casual on the outside but on the inside you’re so hardcore dying that you just gotta laugh or perpetually cry.
“See that wasn’t a mistake, it’s just happy little clouds now. Happy little subliminal messaging clouds.” ~ Bobcat Ross