Pantsless On a Ferry. A Perfect Example of NOT Taking Life Seriously. At All.

IN: Life


I’ve been way too serious lately.

I just decided.

I was about to write a really intelligent post on finding your target market, and then, suddenly, just decided…fuck it.

Who wants to write about target markets on a Thursday afternoon? Not me.

I’d way rather talk about the time I wore no pants on a ferry. (True story.)

Or the time I made new guy sneak into the bathroom of the Mexican restaurant to cop a feel…and then made him crawl out a midget-sized window to escape.

I am totally upping my authority with these statements, aren’t I?

It’s cool.

I’m on a mission to continue to take life as least seriously as possible, and I’m pretty sure you should join me. Whether or not that means you need to go pantsless on a ferry is totally up to you. (Highly recommended with trenchcoat.)

New guy is so going to kill me for this post.

We may or may not be going to Belize together in a couple of weeks, where he may or may not attempt to drown me as retaliation.

If I never publish another blog post again, you can be certain that’s most likely what happened, which kind of makes me want to reveal his identity right here, right now, just in case, but I suppose I’ll spare him his innocence. After all, not everyone likes having their business known to 10,000+ people at a time. Can be awkward, you know? Particularly the part about the window. (Though I will say, if I were him, I’d be gloating at the fact that he had me all to himself alone in a bathroom in the first place. Muah. Ah.)

Now he’s really going to drown me.

We are doing a number of water activities in Belize, by which I mean that he will be doing a number of water activities, because I’m the asshole who isn’t certified to dive. Don’t even think about writing in the comments some whiney bullshit about “Why don’t you just get certified to dive, Ash?” because I will slash your tires.

Even if I did, I wouldn’t have enough “dives under my belt” to dive with these elusive whale sharks, which is his dream, so regardless, I’d still have to snorkel around on the surface like a huge asshole. Which I’m totally going to do anyway, because I could care less about looking like an asshole. As we all know.

Bloop bloop, bloop, bloop.

That’s how I imagine it’ll sound. Me snorkeling around on the surface all by myself like an asshole, while a whole boat full of sophisticated, experienced divers in wet suits are jumping into the water, waving at me as they jump in, thinking to themselves, “What a loser.”

I bet at least four of those idiots ask me the same thing on the boat ride: “You came on a whale shark tour but didn’t GET CERTIFIED?!”

Screw you and your wet suit, buddy.

That’s what I say to that.

It’s simple: I don’t like to eat fish; I certainly don’t want to pretend to be a fucking fish.

Which is obviously a huge lie and just a big rationalization that helps me feel better about being a huge loser who has yet to do this whole diving thing.

Shut up.

The only reason I really wish I were able to dive is so I could take an underwater video camera down and record new guy’s face the first time he actually sees one of these so-called whale sharks, because I’m certain he’s going to pee himself and/or possibly faint underwater from the excitement, and then I’d have something really solid to use as blackmail.

Right now all I’ve got is a story about jumping out of windows of the bathroom of a random Mexican restaurant. And anyone who knows him would probably never even believe that, since it’s so uncharacteristic.


That’s what you get for dating me.

That kind of shit. Sneaking into bathrooms and jumping out of windows like James Bond kind of shit.

And then blog posts that announce it all to the world.

What can I say? I warned him.

I think.


That said, we’ll talk about finding your target market another day when life isn’t so exciting.

Right now I am way too busy looking up cruel and slightly embarrassing things I can make him do in Belize as a surprise.

I’m thinking something to do with ancient Mayan traditions.

Perhaps a loin cloth.

I mean, he already saw me pantsless.

What’s the big deal, really?


The Middle Finger Project. Not Your Grandmother’s Blog.