Yesterday someone at work proposed in the Starbucks. Not an off-the-cuff kind of proposal, a down-on-one-knee-with-a-ring proposal, the kind of spectacle that everyone in the store hears about.
"That's it," Chris said "I have to find someone to marry just so that I can take her to McDonalds to ask her." I shook my head.
"7-11. That's your venue."
"Was he being creative?" Claire asked "Like, did he sink the ring in her latte?" A small pointer for anyone considering this suggestion: choking. Need I say more?
A personal note to friends, family, and creditors of Hamish Buchanan: he changed his phone number two and a half years ago. If he didn't tell you about it then, I'm guessing he doesn't like you very much. Stop calling, for the love of god.
Hamish, if you happen to be reading this, it's about the porn thing--very sketchy, dude. Extra sketchy that you didn't bother to inform your porn associates that you'd moved. I don't want to hear about your distribution plans. Did you enter witness protection? Were you abducted by aliens? Why, oh, why do we still get your phone calls?