It's because you keep relying on magazine advice columns that you can't think for yourself.
District Branch Manager's Log, Day 3
Ah, what a tricky thing the human mind is. The streets bustle and chatter below, but not a single sound reaches my ears. The air is stagnant, barely even lending a breeze to cool my sweaty brow. No, in fact, the only wind that's blowing at all is a rather foul front hailing from the distant land of my bowels. My entire body aches with the pain of a thousand lifetimes spent in reckless indulgence, muscles weak and fatigued. My head aches with the pain of a thousand hangovers. I guess this means I can start my count over, because I've been managing one hangover a week for five years now and in one day I managed to pound out 20 years' worth of puking and light sensitivity. That's got to be worth something, right?
But even then! Even if I wanted to test this new theory of super alcohol-tolerance out, my body will simply not obey. Attempting to move -- no, the very thought of moving. I wash my hands of it. The entire effort is stale with bitter abandon, much like pushing a cart with no wheels sideways against Gori-san's hairy honey-covered ass. NIGH IMPOSSIBLE.
And so for now, I wait. Lulled to sleep by the typhoon of mucus in my nose just waiting to explode and the elephant-like noise I get every time I try to breathe in, and the radio, oh the radio, even the radio taunts me with rap songs about mah bling cost me, you gotsta be able ta undastand tha STREET LYFE!
MAH HOMIES ARE MORE HOMIE DEN YOUR HOMIES 'CUZ DEY USE TA HOMIE IT UP 24/8.
AND THIS, GENTLEMEN. This is why you should never date a cosplayer.
SHINPACHI-KUUUUUUUN.
[OOC: Ryo and I are sick, so guess what. Gintoki and Kagura are sick. Deal with it.]
Ah, what a tricky thing the human mind is. The streets bustle and chatter below, but not a single sound reaches my ears. The air is stagnant, barely even lending a breeze to cool my sweaty brow. No, in fact, the only wind that's blowing at all is a rather foul front hailing from the distant land of my bowels. My entire body aches with the pain of a thousand lifetimes spent in reckless indulgence, muscles weak and fatigued. My head aches with the pain of a thousand hangovers. I guess this means I can start my count over, because I've been managing one hangover a week for five years now and in one day I managed to pound out 20 years' worth of puking and light sensitivity. That's got to be worth something, right?
But even then! Even if I wanted to test this new theory of super alcohol-tolerance out, my body will simply not obey. Attempting to move -- no, the very thought of moving. I wash my hands of it. The entire effort is stale with bitter abandon, much like pushing a cart with no wheels sideways against Gori-san's hairy honey-covered ass. NIGH IMPOSSIBLE.
And so for now, I wait. Lulled to sleep by the typhoon of mucus in my nose just waiting to explode and the elephant-like noise I get every time I try to breathe in, and the radio, oh the radio, even the radio taunts me with rap songs about mah bling cost me, you gotsta be able ta undastand tha STREET LYFE!
MAH HOMIES ARE MORE HOMIE DEN YOUR HOMIES 'CUZ DEY USE TA HOMIE IT UP 24/8.
AND THIS, GENTLEMEN. This is why you should never date a cosplayer.
SHINPACHI-KUUUUUUUN.
[OOC: Ryo and I are sick, so guess what. Gintoki and Kagura are sick. Deal with it.]