Not so true blood

Fuck the rain.



I wonder how much I could get for a kidney, or the rights to my life story, or the lies that I've told, not that I've told any, but you know, I would, if I could sell them, yeah, I'd do that.
Would you?
Who cares?


Hey, get back here, I'm not done with your skinny ass yet.



The seventies weren't really all that bad.

Projectile blogging II

I'm not too pleased with that last post I made.
I'm taking my mulligan.



It's really hot and stuffy tonight and my computer sounds like it's going to explode, and yeah, my fingers are having problems finding the right keys, and I'm right here, sitting in front of the computer screen, trying to squeeze a few more words out, and FUCK, my arms hurt, but I'm not going to talk about that, yeah, don't even ask me about my arms, leave them the fuck out of this, what, huh, still???
I'm flipping through my ipod searching for the perfect song to fit this not so perfect mood, but nothing yet, just a lot of jangly guitars when I need a throbbing pulsating beat, or a throbbing pulsating cock, and I'm not capable of either one, doobie, doobie doo,
I could puke at any moment.

Projectile blogging

I shouldn't have eaten the leftover pizza a half hour ago, but it was inevitable that I would, because it was there, and so was I.
The irresistible force and the immovable object.
I should watch a movie, the kind that puts me to sleep, not the kind that keeps me awake, and maybe I should have said, not the kind that keeps me awake, but the kind that puts me to sleep, or vice versa ...
Ignore that last paragraph. Don't ask why, just ignore it.
Who are my 16 followers? I need names, I need reasons, I need affirmation.
I'm going to watch that movie now.