I fucking hate driving from Tucson to Phoenix on Friday nights, and I’m not letting man-bun eat my pizza.
In 1987 (I think) I married a Savage, a real Savage, not some bullshit pejorative nickname, but a real Savage.
I have a son. He has a name, but I usually just call him “The Boy.”
When I was young, the kind of shitheads I used to hang around said things like: “I can’t see being married and waking up next to the same woman every day.”