For years I’ve checked weather.com in the morning for the temperature and then asked Mike what I should wear anyway. He always replies (jokingly!), “something
By 1 pm I was sitting at a picnic table praying desperately for a little sunshine to emerge from behind the clouds and warm me up, halfway tempted to rip up my copy of Mauss’ The Gift, which I don’t understand anyway, and origami it into a fetching cardigan.
I was freezing and exasperated. The goodness kept coming, as my pen started to run dry. I shook it furiously. I glanced at it, then did a double-take. What’s that word on my pen?
That can’t be right. Put on glasses. Look again.
I have no idea how it got in my pen drawer. It was one of the only ones left behind by the Mini’s latest pillaging, and it was shiny and industrial looking, which I suppose is how they attract their target audience. Marketing. Good times.
Stress monkey attack. Must rid myself of the pen. Can’t let anyone see me throw away a Viagra Pen. But it has no ink. And it’s not like there’s Viagra in the pen. Even so,…
Be cool. Wrap it up in a napkin, tuck it inside your potato chip bag, shove it into the bottom of your bookbag. No one will ever suspect that that odd lump protruding from your bag is a Viagra Pen. Smooth.