Sitting in the stylist's chair absorbing the news that my beloved hair therapy girl is moving north, I realize later I've just dyed it the same color as my bar boss. CRINGE.
Bouncing in the 1950s Chevy pickup, rattling along on 101 north, after showing up two hours late for a lunch comprised of nicoise salad and business, I'm miraculously instantly forgiven as we drive twenty minutes north in search of a secret beach.
Lounging in front of the back gate checking IDs and taking people's cash to pay the bands, I needed a few good one-liners to get through the night.
Boy: "You're going to have to make it more obvious that you're the door person. Otherwise, you're just some hot chick saying hi to me."
Girl: "That's what I do: butter you up, and then take your money."
It almost hurts to say it out loud. but as long as we're being honest...
Boy: "How was your day?"
Girl: "Well, I ended up at a gay, nude beach where there was a gay, nude photo shoot going on."
At a gay, nude beach, there are no penises, dicks, or willies. Only schlong. Magnificently gay schlong, on display for all to see and desire, like a peacock.
We laughed, we giggled, I cackled, because that's what I do when I'm laughing so hard I can't control how aurally attractive that laughter is, just because we were surrounded. By schlong!
There is nothing more hysterical than human anatomy, and nothing more deserving of laughter than sex.
Epilogue:
"Thanks for the text that my phone was in your mailbox."
"Oh, you're welcome!"
"Except I didn't get it until right now. Because my phone was in your mailbox."