Sweat Monster

That’s me.

The sweat monster.

No matter the day, no matter the season.

I will perspire.

Through wife beaters, through shirts, on shoes, in the bar or on the patio.

Without regard to situation, or embarrassment.

Regardless if I’m hydrated or bone dry.

I will sweat.

On you if you aren’t careful.

Is this something I have come to grips with?

Yes mostly.

Will I survive, yes.

I surround myself with good people who get this and mostly ignore it

(or make fun of it).

You know who usually doesn’t get this?

Women.

I could be the most confident man in the world.

A brilliant, scientist/magician/quarterback/Le Cordon Blue Chef.

If I’m dripping sweaty from a walk around the lakes in 97+ degree heat, you will most likely not be impressed.

Shouldn’t he have mind control over it?

Shouldn’t he have antiperspirized his face?

Sorry ladies, I bleed liquid awkwardness from my pours.

Pay no attention to what is coming out of my mouth.

All that matters is that I’m pitting out and have the glisten of a freshly baked Cornish Game Hen.

What benefit is there from such a walk?

Well I couldn’t possibly look any worse, so I guess I’ll just keep on doing my awkward comment/over the top antidote / offensive joke thing.

Get it or don’t.

If you’re on board, bring a poncho.