the lock jammed on the front door of my shitty prewar apartment building so i just spent twenty minutes forcing it open while my very drunk neighbor sat on the steps nodding at my efforts and going “this is fun. being locked out together. we should hang out more”
he’s like 6’2” and jacked at one point he was like “try a kick. try… kicking it” so i donkey kicked it as hard as i could and it did absolutely nothing but he was still like “wow. more torque…. than i expected. you’ve got a surprising, uh. torque to size ratio” and i think i’m putting it on my resume
love how sometimes i’m like “oh, i should put this somewhere safe so i don’t lose it and know exactly where to find it later!” and about a month later i’m standing in my ransacked room trying to get into past me’s mindset like some kinda amateur historian on one of those history channel treasure hunting shows trying to get into the mind of a nineteenth century pirate to figure out where they hid some possibly nonexistent apocryphal loot
having memory problems is like being an archaeologist of your own life and it isn’t nearly as exciting as it sounds
