Having an organized and stylish place to keep your weed that you can leave out in plain sight is an option any adult deserves.
Thursday is usually my big deadline night. I have a regular column due in the morning and I recap a TV show that's on that evening, so I invariably spend late hours toiling away, texting my friends things like "What souuuuuuuuup do I want to eeeeeeeat?", updating Facebook about how much root beer I've had to drink and looking at web sites that sell underwear.
Please note that I didn't say "online shopping on web sites that sell underwear." Shopping is not recreational for me: I do it only so I have things to drape haphazardly atop my nude form to prevent me from losing too much body heat and/or being arrested.
Nope, I like to go onto retail websites and make up elaborate back stories for the underwear models. This is also a helpful cover if you're one of those guys who doesn't know about Internet porn and still masturbates to lingerie magazines.
"I'm not masturbating to this, I'm making up an elaborate backstory for Adriana Lima."
You know, like that.
But alas, Victoria's Secret is no fun, because most of the models are weirdly famous. And, as a result, we all know Adriana Lima's actual back story (raised in captivity by a pair of endangered cane toads, devout Satanist).
And today, I have found a new muse: it's Guillaume, the excruciatingly sad ginger American Apparel model. He's like the acathectic Nomi Malone of nostalgia-cut underwear modeling, and he's just perfect.
I named him Guillaume because it's the most depressing name for a guy that I can think of right now that isn't "Kyle," which is the actual most depressing name I can think of but is also the name of several friends. Maybe Casey. Taylor. Or TJ.
You may know Guillaume as American Apparel's centerpiece briefs model, but I know him as the mournful French-Canadian asexual who is allergic to most foods and metals. He realized he wasn't like other people when he saw his father cry at his grandmother's funeral and felt nothing -- not shame for his father nor sadness for his grandmother, appreciation for the flowers or the spring day or the innuendo of his own inevitable demise. The closest he ever came to an organic expression of feeling was when he abandoned his birthday present of a puppy in a public park, in the vain, half-felt similacrum of hope that it would find emotional succor with a family that felt something for it other than hollow indifference.
Let's do a close-up, OK? OK.
It doesn't matter how mood-boosting a color you put him in,
If you roll over the all colors of briefs available on the site, it's exactly like watching a time lapse video of a man trapped in 300 different shades of his own exquisite melancholy.
He's basically a human Russian novel about the necessity to destroy one's empathy in wartime. It's so bad! So bad that the one time a color is just TOO festive, they have to call in this guy:
OK. OK. Guillaume looks very thin and like he doesn't retain heat super well. So maybe he's cold! Maybe he'd be happy if we put clothes on him?
OK, maybe no.
But you don't have to like my backstory. Making fun of models is just like feminism: it's what ever you can IMAGINEER it to be.
What's your backstory for Guillaume? You don't even have to call him that. You can change his name! Best one gets an elaborate handwritten short story about them by me, or a signed picture of my boobs.