For the third consecutive day San Francisco is as hot as George Clooney in the hallucination scene from Alfonso Cuarón’s Gravity, so B, Sid, the dogs and I are planning to ditch our upstairs bedrooms tonight in favor of a campout in the main floor living room where it’s a much more tolerable O Brother, Where Art Thou? on the George Clooney Movie Hotness Scale.
I was supposed to learn how to make ceviche at an old warehouse in the Dogpatch this evening but then my team got assigned a chef that looked pretty much exactly like a younger, blue-eyed version of George Clooney.
Needless to say, I retained very little knowledge of how to make ceviche.
I just took two NyQuil that expired in September of 2014 so if I die in my sleep tonight I would like to be cremated and my ashes spread somewhere with a view, like the tip of Cape Cod or George Clooney’s toilet seat.
My roommate Billy and I shared the following iMessage conversation while watching the Oscars from different parties last night. My words are in blue.