Don't threaten me with a good time

It's Saturday morning. People all over the world this time zone are waking up bleary-eyed, taking stock of themselves, gradually and woefully realizing that they just can't account for all of Friday night's events. Who's van is this? How'd I get to Canada? Why won't my eye stop twitching?

These are the questions one must ask oneself, but really, they're a small price to pay for a night of wanton frivolity after a long week. After all, what's a little memory loss when, surely, it's the result of a good time?

Or, if you're me, your Saturday morning holds slightly different revelations. I wake up, turn on the blessed Keurig, pad over to the computer and open up my email. What's this? A message from myself at 2:56 a.m.? There's no subject. I'd better open it... 

genie bra

Um, okay. I think back -- what was I doing at 2:56 a.m.? Was I on my way home from the bar/club/house party I was surely attending? Was I still at the bar/club/house party I was surely the life of? Oh, wait, no, I remember! I was in bed, as usual, watching TV and emailing myself, stone sober and simultaneously COMPLETELY OUT OF MY MIND.

So what is this "genie bra"? Surely it must be magnificent to have moved me, in my semi-conscious state, to want to tell Future Me about it. Obviously, this product must necessarily be The Most Amazing Bra Ever -- beautifully engineered, comfortable yet stylish, available in every color of the rainbow and likely very expensive (one must pay for quality and ingenuity when one finds it, after all). I mean, it's a genie bra -- it grants wishes! All of my problems, boob-related and otherwise, are about to be solved. I'm so excited!

Whatever this mysterious and intriguing device is, all I know for sure is that it's definitely not a glorified sports bra that they're desperate to sell you in bulk and I will definitely not feel like an asshole when I find out...

Sigh. I'll take twelve.