This is a picture of my favorite hat in the Whole. Wide. World.
It is soft and fleecey, and there’s a maple leaf, with an embroidered beaver on the other side. (Fuck, yeah!)
(I don’t really know why I just exclaimed Fuck, yeah! I guess that’s just how I roll.)
I like to wear my favorite hat backwards.
If I thought I could get away with wearing it every single day, I probably would. (So instead I wear it every other day or so, and hope no one notices.) Sometimes it’s too cold to wear my favorite hat in the whole wide world, and sometimes it’s too hot. This makes me sad.
Occasionally, I fret about what would happen were I to somehow misplace my favorite hat in the whole wide world. (Or should Rabid Marauding Visigoths or Whatnot break into my apartment and steal my favorite hat for use as a Potholder or a Stadium Cushion or a Loincloth or something equally Visigoth-y). And really, I have to say, were I to be permanently separated from my favorite hat in the whole wide world, I don’t know . . . things could get ugly.
Certain difficult individuals have, on occasion, teased me about Attempting to Impersonate a Canadian when I wear this hat, but I think that’s just (a) rude, insolent, and intrusive, and (b) a reading of the semiotic implications of my favorite hat that, quite frankly, lacks a certain nuance.
(Perhaps tomorrow I will Impersonate an Eggplant by wearing a fleece hat in the shape of an eggplant. See what I mean? That’s just crazy talk. Unnuanced crazy talk.)
(And yes, they make fleece hats that look like eggplants. And yes, I want one. Because I happen to really like eggplants. And (recently) cheap beer with copious amounts of olives. And Appletinis. And yum woon sen. And handbags. And hedgehogs. And goldfish. Among other things. Just for the record.)
So, no impersonating of Canadians, although it’s true that once I fell in love in Canada and it was very confusing, because I think that what maybe really happened was that I fell in love with Canada. Or something like that.
But that’s another story altogether.
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Top Secret Message to The Posse: Poker Alice this Friday at Carey’s? 8:00-ish? Come dance with me? (And careful now . . . this Top Secret Message is so Radically Top Secret that, were this Mission Impossible, it would self destruct in 60 seconds.)
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I’m really starting to think that this may be, in fact, my Dumbest. Blog Post. Ever.
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