When you find yourself dancing around in a motorcycle helmut with painted flames at 2am, you may need to reevaluate your situation. I know this first hand.
Last Thursday, I went out. Typical night. A drink, a few chats with gentlemen, some food, a little flirting and a shoulder shimmy or two.
Then Pabst Blue Ribbon happened.
I’ve avoided this particular beverage like it were rat poison. But when you’re FUNemployed and others are kind enough to buy you drinks, you roll with it.
I was displaying my best dance moves, helping a man with his pool game by knocking his striped balls into the side pockets and making friends left and right.
As I was heading for the door, my eyes landed on a motorcycle helmut. A festive one, resting all by it’s lonesome, engulfed in painted flames. I did what came naturally: put it on my head, started dancing and shaking my index fingers like they were wands and screamed “Hurry! Take a picture! Did you get it?! It’s sweaty in here!!”
Sweet Jesus lord, with every adult beverage, my age decreases by 4 years, which must be why I was acting like a 12-year old. Just call me Benjamin Button.