Don’t Name Your Lobster

by agoodnow

Here is the problem with buying live lobsters – I name them. And once you name something you really sort of have a lot of responsibility for it. For the rest of that lobsters very short life I felt like I was supposed to make him (maybe her…I mean, we live in a world where even violence toward a female lobster could be frowned up so I’m just going to stick with calling this bottom-feeder Larry). And I’m gonna be honest. Larry was a fighter. That guy really did not like being restrained or in a bag or in the fridge…which, ya know, I’m not sure any of us would be thrilled with. So anyhow, Larry was a fighter and damn delicious. Also, I need to not name things I’m going to eat because I have this overarching sense of guilt as I was enjoying succulent, buttery lobster.

Even worse is that there were two lobsters. I named one Larry and the other one I just rotated through names. Frank, Jerry, Lamarcus….he had lots of names. Anyhow, he’s also no longer with us, but I’m sure he didn’t really want his last hours to be spent dry and cold. Poor bastard.

Which leads me to the next point. What the fuck would I do if I had to actually hunt my own food. I would constantly feel terrible about killing Bambie’s mom or a cow named Bessie.

I have a feeling I’ll be eating less meat this week.

I had a Cliff Bar for breakfast and drank Oat Milk with my coffee.

Oat Milk is shockingly delicious.

I drank champagne out of a bottle with a cap on it two nights in a row. Not gonna lie, it was amazing.

Cinco de Mayo is a funny holiday. I had a margarita for it…you know, to be social. It is sort of funny how we turn most holidays into a reason to drink.

I had a great idea for a bar and guess what…nobody has done it yet. I’m looking for investors if anyone reading has a spare $388k to throw around.

Grew up loving baseball so much. It just doesn’t resonate with me the way it used to. Which is a bit sad to me. It is different.

I’m tired of politics. Used to love it. The exchange of thoughts is fantastic. The constant exchange of barbs is exhausting and hackneyed and so terribly predictable.

You know when you build something up to be special and it doesn’t live up to it? Maybe that’s Game of Thrones. Maybe it isn’t. But it is probably Game of Thrones. (Writing this in the hopes that I have to eat these words in 13 days)

I was asked today, “If you were a piece of furniture, what would you be?” My response, “Love seat.” I wanted to give myself a hi-five when I said it.