Go to Starbucks. Order coffee for “Prisoner 24601”
When they call out your order, jump up and yell “My name is Jean Valjean!”
And if the barista replies with “AND I’M JAVERT,” you tip that motherfucker so hard
you tip them right over the edge of a bridge
you fucking didn’t
oh my god.
Part of me is still sad that I can’t sing. But at least I’m not denying that I sound like a terrified animal.
After looking in the kitchen post-grocery shopping, I have determined that my parents live off of cereal, cracker-type snacks, sandwiches, and once-a-week eggs. There’s fruit in there too, but considering I’m the only one to have touched it, I’d say they only dip into it occasionally.