A few weeks ago, I resigned from my swiping duties so I will cross my fingers that I never have to answer this question again. Because I just… have no idea how.
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Having exhausted the options of trying to nicely ask these smelly boys to move, I took matters into my own hands. I didn’t have time for this shit. I wanted to play kickball. And they were in my way.
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Despite having the utmost respect for each other, it’s safe to say Kris and I were counting down the tests, doctors visits, and quarantine calls until we were released from each other and allowed to go about our own journeys.
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Well wouldn’t you know, 2021 called and said, “Hold my beer, Hughes.” And Friday morning, before we grabbed our bikes to head to the testing center, I realized something very strange:
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So as I sat on the couch this evening, trying to figure out how to become a better human, I found inspiration from tiny men in spandex.
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I mean, looking at that paragraph, it’s no wonder that many young, unmarried folks aren’t spamming friends and family with their life news, in the typical holiday fashion.
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This lovely, Portuguese cabernet (Quinta da Alorna) and I are cozying up to a computer screen displaying the raw evidence of my nasty, American habit that almost ruined my relationship.
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I guess, at the end of the day, my soul felt a sort of clarity in Portugal that I’ve only ever felt at “home.” And to me, that feeling bore enough weight to take a chance on moving, without the security of any sort of plan.
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Imagine the word “rustic” brought to life, in a store, in the St. Pauli neighborhood of Hamburg, Germany. At first glance, Sea Râmica is trendy…
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