It's February 24. Valentine's Day has passed. So has New Year's Eve and New Year's Day (and, very likely, your New Year's resolutions). But, luckily for all, here comes another tax season to save the day!
I'm guessing—and this is just a guess—that somewhere on your 2016 calendar "I need a f*cking hug" is already scribbled in. Or should be. Or will be soon.
I'm here to tell you that you are not alone. We all need a hug from time-to-time and for any number of hug-worthy reasons. You'll find no judgment here, only examples for which hugs might be needed by and for yours truly.
So here we go.
You might need a hug if ...
Your Argentinian rafting instructor cares only for two things: 1) yerba mate and 2) repeating "Scooby Dooby Doo" every time someone asks a question.
You're this guy.
When you’re a jet, you’re a jet all the way; from your first cocoon bloom till your last dying day.
You live where there is a shortage of rain and sincerity.
You had to endure life before the distraction of smartphones.
Your "home brew" is specially crafted from your prison cell outside a small Italian town; then, sold to tourists like me in aforementioned small Italian town. (Tastes great, by the way. Thanks!)
Some animal tore your insides out.
Your American babysitter refuses to speak Italian with you.
Your Italian-to-English translation fail causes this American weeks and weeks of laughter.
The best action you got in Europe was a snuggle from a Danish toddler.
You have to park Hulk Smash next to a Porsche. Every. F*cking. Day.
You celebrate your first time in a bar by playing Jenga.
You work to redesign your boss's office in the spring; he runs out of money and fires you in the fall.
Your housemate ate all the cookies.
You ate all the cookies.
You are the only one who can't seem to sleep through La Traviata blaring from la piazza below. (Or you're in attendance at La Traviata below.)
You think Hemingway was right. Or you run a typewriter museum. Or you're the only person who appreciates a typewriter museum. F*ck Hemingway.
You're hair is not naturally red, so, naturally, you do care.
You need to paint and pee at the same time.
You never have any privacy.
You'll never pay off art school.
You're 40 and sleep on a twin bed.
You attend a vintage makeup party and they make you look, well, vintage.
You have to hide your love of Axel Rose.
You'd rather balance rocks on the shores of the Cinque Terre than talk with other adults.
Leah Thompson called and she wants her hair back.
You had a rough day at the office.
You believe that used water bottles are of historic significance.
You're too early. Or too late.
You're the only one of your friends who liked Jhonen Vasquez before Invader Zim and when you wear your Johnny the Homicidal Maniac and Squee t-shirts–yes, that's you in a Squee t-shirt on the bunny slopes–people just stare because no one has ever heard of Squee because no one believes that Jhonen Vasquez was alive before Invader Zim and just about the only remark that anyone ever makes about your cool t-shirts is about the cartoon eyes on your chest. F*ck Invader Zim.
Your name is Ron or Jan.
You think whatever-the-hell-this-is needs to be in a museum. WHAT IN THE HELL IS THIS?
You don't know what to do.