Dirtbag

I recently wrote a story where I waxed rhapsodic about my love for crappy scrambled eggs. I mentioned that I use potato chips as little trowels to shovel hard curds of egg into my mouth without sullying any utensils, and a few people were like, Hey, that's a great idea.

Summer is gross. Yes, yes, there's fun in the sun and beaches and pools and lakes and various other water-adjacent activities, but that's just a fraction of it. Most of the time you're hunkered indoors around an air conditioner vent (or worse, an almost comically inefficient ceiling fan) wearing the social minimum of fabric and wondering if your lower back and gluteal region is ever going to be dry again. Y'all coffee fetishists can have fun trudging out into the hellswamp for your fancy-ass cold brew concoctions.