HOLYFLEA!

I write my own checks just kidding writing checks makes me want to freak out cause tha’s just a piece of paper man I look at the lady behind the window just a little too long every time like are you sure, man? is that thing legit? can yeh just take that to the bankman for me there, thanks pal yeppers that sure is all the money in my bank account just wrote down the number there for yeh enjoy

I’ve stumbled into 1995 and I’m sitting at the counter in Central Perk working the right temple tip of my horn-rimmed glasses between my teeth when Chandler Bing enters, for once without his five, flighty friends. As he walks up behind me to order, I drop the spectacles in my oversized, polka-dotted mug, nervously. The splash travels upward and lands on his abstract-patterned tie. I slip off the stool, apologizing as I use a napkin to blot without success. Chandler raises his eyebrows. “Somehow, this actually might be an improvement.” A laugh-track plays from the ether. We don’t mention it. I want to say something about how he gives Hugh Grant a run for his money when it comes to end-of-the-twentieth-century male center parts, but instead I just tell him my name.

like seriously big whoop-de-doo famed movie star mr wolverine is super jacked, rich, and handsome as fuck who coulda saw that coming? definitely me and the rest of the world. am i supposed to be impressed by that? because off the top of my head that seems kinda boring

It was, in all regards, a completely average day in the completely average neighborhood where Sam the Calico Cat lived a completely mediocre life in a very mediocre home with the most average and mediocre people he knew. On this especially average day, Sam the Calico Cat was feeling particularly down and all around lazy. Uninspired by the ennui of it all, the feline settled onto the sunbaked tin of the family mailbox, spotted tail swinging idly in the breeze. His usually bright eyes followed passersby as they passed him by on the street.