red pills found behind the sofa cushions, existential logistics edition
Picked up a bottle of Herradura Seleccion Suprema and 2 limes, which I’ve cut into sixteen wedges and placed in an earthen bowl next to some kosher salt and a frosted apÃƒÂ©ritif glass. I figure if I use my time wisely, I can cram 100 Years of Solitude into three, maybe four hours. From there—a straight shot to the meaning of life.
Wish me luck. Because truth be told, better men than I have tried such shortcuts—the vast majority of whom have ended up trying to fight a bull. And I just don’t have the footspeed to take on a bull these days, even if the beast happens to be as pissed on expensive tequila as I am.
Though on the plus side, should I somehow manage to pull it off, I can sleep in until noon tomorrow and not feel at all guilty about it. So I got that going for me.