I Don't Care That You're About To Judge Me. . .

. . . but Jack Johnson makes me happy. There I said it. Bubbly toes and all that bullshit. He has GHB in his lyrics. Ever see a party where Jack Johnson comes on and everyone (wait. . . GHB? that's the date rape drug I think. I mean THC. Unless that's the thing that's in turkey that makes you sleepy, then I don't mean that. Or maybe I do a little - sleepy and relaxed, it doesn't really matter where you get your buzz from. Eat too much turkey every afternoon? Fine by me.) Anyway, ever see a party where JJ comes on and everyone doesn't just relax into a lawn chair, unbutton their Hawaiian shirts to the navel (because suddenly everyone is wearing Hawaiian shirts) and get instantly tan, while drinking their 8th ice cold beer, and settling into that happy afternoon buzz that you get on a Tuesday when you're a senior in college and you can take advantage of the fact that it's 80 degrees out, because you're a senior in college and there's a pool on the roof of your apartment building and there isn't anything in the world you'd rather be doing, or any place you'd rather be. Except maybe in the pool. With that guy who lives down the hall. And possibly his roommate.

Wait, what?

Better When We're Together is stuck in my head. And the sap is making me stick to my seat, but I don't care - because when Becky builds me a house, with these step-bookcases I won't ever have to listen to music again, where I might be enchanted into the Jack Johnson trap (he's like a siren!), because I'll be too busy climbing my stairs looking for a book, and then letting the top half of my body arrive on the next step half a minute after the bottom half of my body - like a slinky - until I'm so bruised I look like I spent the evening in a tumble dryer. (dumbest kid moment ever #14)




This will go right next to my sunken den like the one in HELP.

I will only leave my house for Cold Stone.

Until I can afford to have one built right next to my giant room filled with gum balls.