Money, Prostitutes, and Taylor Swift

Context: I let myself into a friend's house to leave him money to buy baseball tickets. (I'm essentially paying $91 for a Fenway Frank, and I'm told the privilege of likely being ejected within the first 3 innings. I have taken the over-under and bet on four.)

In defense of The Hangover,
I didn't like it back when it was Very Bad Things either.

Me: I considered hiding the money in one of your shoes to make you look for it, but instead left it in your computer. Much less work. (Ryan has many, many shoes.)

Ryan: Thanks, yeah. Did you leave the computer open?

Me: It was half-open, half-fallen diagonally inside a half-closed drawer. I more just threw the money into it like a spent and malaised prostitute after a business transaction.

Ryan: Nice simile. I was downloading a file, so I left it open.

Me: Thanks. Yeah, I killed my battery the other day downloading Taylor Swift. I'm … not proud.

Ryan: We all have our guilty pleasures.

Me: That's just the thing. I can't tell if I get any pleasure out of it. She's like the tween country equivalent of S&M. Catchy bitch.

On Gastronomically Positive Reinforcement

Alright, it's really hard to turn down free food all the time.
I'd moonlight for the right entre.

I know I'm doing a good job at work when the people for whom I'm running tech support ask me if I want anything to eat.

Cake pops, lasagna, coffee, I'm starting to get some serious date offers, here. Septuagenarians taking me out for early-bird specials in return for troubleshooting their devices, enticing me with delicious foods and seducing me with their old world recipes.

They're not even pretending anymore; I've started to get "outcall" requests. "Can I bring you home?" "Can I pay you to come to my house?" What to I look like, people, some kind of common, street-walking customer support representative? If you want a piece of me, you gotta go through my daddy company, and they gotta take their cut.

On Shower Curtains

When I was a kid, my family always had showers with those semi-opaque doors. The only place with shower curtains was my great aunt's house. In their public bathroom there was a bathtub, but the shower curtain was perpetually closed. Even before the advent of shows like CSI and Law & Order, I found myself so bored at family functions that I'd construct the elaborate fantasy that behind that curtain was a dead hooker.

Granted, this freaked me out to the point of compulsively checking to this day any and all view-obstructing shower curtains, but I think I'm more worried about the fact that from an early age I never really questioned the possibility that my gun-toting racist alcoholic uncle and local-politics swindling aunt might have a dead hooker in their shower during Christmas Dinner.