Bowling alleys. The smell of spilt beer and stale cigarettes, the sallow look of the employees that have spent one too many days inhaling shoes disinfectant under fluorescent lights, and the happy skip of a bowler who just bowled a strike. I like bowling alleys, they remind me of childhood.
My ball was gold, it’s how I roll.
The real highlight of the evening came when we discovered that the vending machines carried fake tattoos. Now it says a lot about a girl when she is willing to drop a whole roll of quarters that she had stashed in her purse for laundry on fake tattoos. If you’ve ever lived in an apartment complex or a dorm, you know quarters are pure gold. You pilfer them out of others coin trays, pick them up off the ground, and hoard them in your wallet. My friend K is serious about the business of fake tattoos, and gladly purchased us a sweet stack of the beauties with her fresh roll of quarters.
On another note, completed the Susan G. Komen walk/run with my mamma last weekend. Lookin fly pre-race. This rockstar ran almost the whole thing.
The gang. We look good with pink on!