Loathing

OK, so I took the low road and purchased a Cpt. Jack Sparrow costume from Costume CRAZE, an online scam with the slogan, “Thousands of Costumes. Millions of Smiles.” Didn’t even realize that the “Thousands of Costumes” part might have given me some options. But when I was scrolling through their options, it seemed like I would need to first be a hot looking girl to pull off most of the “costumes” they had for sale. Most of the “costumes” were Catwoman, Spiderwoman, or Naughty Nurse—things I’m not anatomically built to slink into. I just don’t have the tits. Or the wannabe whore inclination.

Plus my balls would hang out of most of the leotards. I tried to take R's word to heart (wouldn’t it be funny if I went as a naughty nurse), but I couldn’t shake the fact that one cannot put a price on dignity. Or balls hanging out of a costume meant to make tits shine.

Way too meta-SoHo. I think only New Yorkers would get that. And only downtown dwellers, at that. Not exactly an Upper East Side joke.

I just had an idea—going as Hunter S. Thompson. Everyone at every place I've worked has regarded me as an incarnation of him.
Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. I don’t even carry around my own personal supply of laughing gas and have never done LSD. Usually, I don’t even think monsters are chasing me.

I may yet Google this costume idea. But I refuse to carry around a typewriter all night long (2 hours) while wearing a Panama hat and garnishing a cigarette holder. I would make my legal advisor, Raul, do that for me. In the convertible. Before we get to Vegas. While eluding cops and picking up hitchhikers.