If I had only had a day-old, smashed-up cigarette, I would not have met you and yours. Pretentious wild-tobacco-spilling-out-the-ends-rolled-up-with-hipster-hands. I could have saved myself this particular eight-ninety-five.
I would have bought a beer or two instead.
This is so bad that it is worse than the time I remembered at work that I had eaten the last box of Girl Scout cookies, and that none would be waiting for me when I got home that day at seven twenty nine. I spent the hours from two to five alternately mourning the Samoas, once-here-now-gone, and refreshing Ebay continuously (search: Girl Scout cookies). Futilely, because who doesn't want to savor their last Girl Scout cookies of the year?
I had been walking through an empty Wal-Mart parking lot, holding my entire life in one hand, while searching for a savior at the bottom of my bag with the other. Your tattooed wrist and ironic pink thumbnail got in my face, and you were Jesus.
You are in my phone as Hal, for a number of reasons.
This is so bad, it is worse than meeting the father of your too-old baby in a Wal-Mart parking lot.