So the Boyfriend is getting ready to travel for a few weeks, out of the country, and I’m all weird because I’ll miss him terribly and worry about him and hope he’s having a wonderful time, and because he’ll be doing something cool and fun while I stay home and hate my job. And, as usual, he waits until the very last possible moment to start getting ready for anything, whereas I am fully packed two weeks ahead of time for a 3-day weekend. Because that’s how he is and that’s how I am.
His priorities are all screwed up, I feel, as he runs getting everything taken care of before he flies out of here. He’s suddenly worried about getting a hat, because that’s “something on the list of things they are supposed to bring”; whereas my primary concern at this point of a pending journey is whether or not my balls and ass are properly shaved.
By waiting until the last minute, he has no option of buying a nice hat that looks fashionable and serves the dual purpose of shading his head, forehead, and neck from the blazing sun as well as drawing the attention of hot foreign men. No, tonight, we journey to the local Wal-Mart, to find a hat, and I tell him there are hats at Wal-Mart, but nothing he would want and probably nothing that will fit him since his head is abnormally large, to hold his abnormally large brain and to reflect the abnormally large head of his cock.
He actually finds the only vaguely decent hat available in the entire world of Wal-Marts, probably a fluke that was delivered accidentally and just tagged and thrown in with the awful plastic adjustable baseball hats with pictures of Chuck Norris and The Flag and Budweiser Lite and several I don’t even know what in hell they are. I try to steer him out of the store with his prize, but he has to check in the sporting goods department as well, because sporting hats might breathe better and be more comfortable, and he doesn’t have any concept what the hunting department of Wal-Mart is or how terrifying it is to be there at any point in time.
But we go, and we look, and we find lots of awful hats with camouflage and Duck F**king Dynasty, and make a young couple with a child shopping for life jackets very nervous because you don’t normally see queers in this part of Kentucky and certainly never in the sporting goods department looking at hunting clothes. We end up, as always, getting the first hat he found, and I’m visibly sweating at this point, from pure nerves, because Wal-Mart in the middle of Kentucky is a pretty terrifying place no matter what time of day and 8:30 at night is even worse. But he makes his successful purchase, and he’s happy, and I’m happy to get the hell out of the store, and I know he’ll probably forget to take the damn hat or leave it on the plane or lose it, but who cares, he found a hat and we had an adventure, and that’s pretty much what really matters.