this hyphenated lifestyle

-

and my daughters will drive volvos.

I get home at 2:22 in the morning, which is more coincidental than ominous. My room, as always, is illuminated. It looks like the laboratory of a mad scientist; the television bouncing blue and white lightning against the simple slat blinds in the window. It looks like I'm already home. It looks like I'm up to something.

I ate pizza tonight, driven by both hunger and a desire for sobriety. Why can't we not be sober? I finally realize that's a plea for drunkenness; society has taught me to ignore double negatives otherwise. Regardless I eat this pizza and it is delicious. Brian works at Amore pizza on Mission boulevard in PB, and he is from New York and we talk about pizza and music.

I say that it is interesting how a lot of people have a favorite album, but it is typically not by their favorite band. This begs the question, "why is your favorite band your favorite?" I won't answer that now, but think about it: what's your favorite album... and is it by your favorite band? Bet you it's not.

Welcome to the rotation, I say out loud, as I drunk dial someone I've not drunk dialed before. I bat zero, though, and I get the machine. The message. The answering machine. Whatever. The drunk dial is less a cry for help than it is an acknowledgment. We're like criminals who want to be caught. Best case scenario, she picks up and we are outed as drunk dialers.

As if to say, "congratulations. I am in a disoriented state of mind and you made the cut. Welcome to my tequila reality."

And every song on the radio matters, so badly, because the lyrics are crystal clear. So sad I'm gonna die; I hope it's going to happen later than I think.

We want so badly not to be strangers. That's why we start a conversation with the pizza guy or our old and dear friends. "What's new?" as if to say, "Make me familiar again... make us not strangers and make our lives overlap so we can..."


So we can matter to eachother.


Legitimately.


Sometimes I miss everything so badly that I dream about the way I used to live.

How does the overdramatic adjective go?

The love of my life.

Life was my love, before. I want to wake up and go up stairs and know that I'm around people who care about the nothing in my life. Cause that girl smiled at me and it makes me feel good, and this diet is working well and I think I'm gonna take up charcoal drawing.

Let me be significant because I'm around you all day.


This is where we fall apart. This is where my system fails. This is where my magical rollercoaster live-at-home-lifestyle falters. Parents always care, but it's duty over interest. It's necessity over friendship and it's given instead of earned. I was born into this team, not drafted.


We were all destroyed by ourselves and now where are we?


What happened to us?


You realize what you're doing when you have to explain it to an old friend. Your life exists undefined till you're forced to define it for someone.

"So what are you up to man? I mean, are you into girls and stuff?"
Of course I am. What do you think?
"No I mean, what's going on with you and girls?"
Oh. Yeah, well... the diet, school, working out... it's finally been about me.
"Yeah that's probably for the best."
(I don't feel the same way.)
Yeah... probably....



I'm hard as hell inside and out and I just wanna be vulnerable for five seconds to remind myself that it's the softness that matters.


big slick on the draw, ace king is a good hand, drop back limped raise stand up with a new plan.

Never grow old.

I'm not embarrassed anymore. I feel young and I'm happy. I'm made young by what I'm doing. I'm finding life in habit and habit in life. Honest.



Never leave a stone unturned. No "what if." I have to stare into space once in a while or else I might miss that shooting star.



Better to regret doing than not doing.


I wanna be so content that all I worry about is my life. To prolong that happiness. To stay alive long enough to enjoy it. I never think about mortality because I'm never satisfied.






As if I have nothing to lose until I do.



What matters is the chance. The potential. I wouldn't trade this lotto ticket for the world.

The human race. The rat race. The relay race.

Did you know that the majority of the passengers on the Hindenburg survived the historic crash? The, "Oh, the humanity!" crash? Only 13 passengers died. That's amazing.

When you factor in the air/ground crew who were injured, the body count stops at 35. That's not too bad, when you consider how famous this disaster is.

Then again, when the space shuttle 'Challenger' exploded, only seven were killed. It's still talked about today.

I guess what was remarkable about the Hindenburg explosion, to me, is that there were far more than 13 passengers on the airship.

So that's your fun fact.

It's not like I haven't been writing. I have been, but they're all stuck in 'draft' stage purgatory. Eventually they may be revised and posted. Time will tell. As a bonus, I have added three extremely short blogs below this one, that I hadn't published otherwise.

But enough jibber jabber. This is what you've all been waiting for:

I have found deeper meaning in the show, BEAUTY AND THE GEEK. (Season 3, aired on MTV in marathon format.)

The entire series is jam-packed with symbolism and metaphor. And boobies. Tons of them. Like at least four. That is a lot of titty. Wowie-wow-woah-wow! Seriously though.

Here's some essential background knowledge: The premise: eight 'beauties' (read: girls who have gotten by on their looks; basically idiots) are paired up with eight 'geeks' (read: guys who have gotten by on their intellects; basically social idiots) and they try to learn from each other. A pair is eliminated via quiz-competition each week. The eventual winners receive $250,000. Nice.

The first challenge was won by Nate, who with his partner Cecile, went on to dominate the entire show. This won them immunity from elimination for one round. That's irrelevant though. What's relevant is that after the beauties and geeks completed their first challenge, a lot of the initial magic was gone. The geeks were frustrated with beauties who couldn't figure out alphabetically organized books. The beauties were fed up with geeks who couldn't even work up the nerve to ask a stranger a question.

Tensions were high, and only one couple wins anything at all in the end. There's no second place. It's $250k or zero.

Or is it?

After the first challenge, after some discussion, and after being given ample time to really dislike eachother, each couple is handed a steel baton and they are escorted out into the main hall of the mansion they are living in. Each baton is being held by a beauty and her respective geek, simultaneously. Rather, they are both holding onto the baton. I don't know why that was so hard to explain. I want you to picture that, for a moment, though, because this means a lot to me.

Decision time.

The host offers a couple $5000 apiece to go home now. Call it quits, pocket five grand. The ride home and the money will be awarded to the couple whose baton first hits the floor. This means that both beauty and geek must let go of the baton.

Fingers quiver, but everyone holds on tight. The host increases the cash to $10,000. The couples are looking at eachother now. Still, the batons are being held firm.

Eventually, the cash prize is increased to $20,000 each. To go home, never see eachother again, quit the show, say goodbye- etc. One couple is seriously considering it at this point. The beauty completely lets go for a moment.

To kill the tension: She grabs back on, and all eight couples stay. I want you to take the last 20 paragraphs and throw them out the window, though, because this has all just been a series of building blocks. We're here. It's done.

What if, in a relationship, you could have so much faith- so much insane faith in not just yourself, or her, but the two of you... that you could just HOLD ON and it would work?


"I want you to take whatever doubts you have about us, and forget about them. Right now. Because no matter how badly you want that $20,000, I'm here for the long run. I'm not going to let go of this baton; it will not ever hit the floor. We're staying. Period."


No one said that line but I really wanted them to.




I wanna be the guy who's strong enough for both of us.
At the same time, I hope I never have to prove it.


When you're in a relationship, you're each holding a baton. It's a prisoner's dilemma. Sometimes you wanna be the first one to let go, because you think dropping it is inevitable. Sometimes you wonder if they're still holding on. Oh man, and sometimes... you let go, for JUST A SECOND, to see if the baton drops. (Girls call this real-life phenomenon a 'test', but we know that it is sadistic torture).

Sometimes you wonder if they're just waiting to drop it too.
---




Be strong enough not to budge if you believe in something. Don't miss out on something amazing because you were hoping someone else would do the hard part for you. If you really, really want something, hold on to it until you can't possibly do so any longer.








If you hold on as long as you can, you'll never regret letting go.










promise.

I've traded brick for straw.

No huff and puff will dismantle us.


Do you exist outside of the mirror? I do not. People call me out constantly for catching myself in a mirror, or sunglasses, or a wading pool or your deep dark beautiful eyes.

I look in the mirror to remind myself that I exist.


Even conversationally, I have no idea at all what I look like. I'm completely unaware of myself unless I can see evidence that I'm real.

Times like this I wonder if I'm not dreaming all of you-- but rather, am I part of someone else's dream?

I can't even see my own nose without closing one eye.

It's this lack of existence that makes interaction so damned meaningful. If I can't see myself, let me see myself in you. Our conversation is evidence that we both exist for real, cause I'm not clever enough to come up with your lines myself.

How powerful could you be if you paid attention to the image you gave off in every conversation? Is that dishonest? Or is it more efficient?

What if you postured yourself perfectly to convey an idea- so well positioned physically, that you basically didn't have to say anything at all?

What if you're already doing this subconsciously?
---

sometimes, the worst thing in the world is admitting someone is right. It is rare and dishonest to easily admit that you're wrong, if you're at all invested in the subject.

The reason this is so disarming is because whenever you make an important decision, you pass it through several logical filters in your head, that you've developed over the years to make the right decision. Abortions, gunshots, moving days and 'goodbye forevers' shouldn't ever be impulse decisions.

When you're dead wrong about 'goodbye forever' it's embarrassing as hell because your whole fucking brain was wrong. Every checkpoint was just leading you in the wrong direction. No one ever elects to do the wrong thing by choice, we all think we're doing what's best for us.

The hardest thing in the world is to admit that every single step you've taken has been dead-ass-wrong. You're covered in lava and you broke your mother's back. Watch your step next time.

Harder still is the opposite of goodbye forever. Whatever that is. Getting someone's character completely wrong makes you feel like a real idiot. To the point where you might just fake it to keep from having to change your outlook.
---

Push ups keep me focused. With the heat, I shower a few times a day. I don't get in the shower without first doing a ton of push ups. Around 500 a day or so. Some with the Perfect Push Up, some without. They make me feel better about what I'm eating, and the huge chiseled pectorals don't hurt either.
---

Everyone's got these threads coming off them, and they're all connected to me. I don't cut any threads. Everyone I've ever encountered, I remember. Someone I sat next to in Comm 103 four years ago is still more special to me than some stranger.

These threads are also why I spend so much time digging around the cache of my life. Whether I'm ignoring your call or checking in after eight years, I've always been looking backwards while falling forwards. Maybe that's why my future calendar only ever goes as far as two weeks from now.

---

I wonder how much of drinking is the alcohol clouding the senses, or the inherently accepted fact that you can get away with more while you're drinking? That is to say, the drunken outbursts we experience-- I bet they are more EMOTIONAL than PHYSIOLOGICAL. Feel me?

Cause when I'm physiologically drunk, I'm pretty gone. I definitely exist; it's everyone else whose existence becomes questionable. But when I'm buzzed (you too) that's the time where I'm just doing all the shit I know I can get away with because of this mask. Probably.
---

I've been looking for purpose and in the process have spent a lot of time on myself, which has been rewarding. The more content I am with me, the more disappointed I am in all of you. Not really. That's harsh. What I mean is,

the more time I spend on myself, the less I worry about existing to other people... so when I *am* focused on you and yours, I'm a little rusty. A bit salty. Me me me.
---








Please remember that your life isn't the Hills or any other location-based pseudoreality show on MTV. The camera might sympathize with you but your real life friends need more than that. Even if it would make good television, it's not. My life could be the greatest movie of all time. It's volatile, but you don't have to touch and go.

You've just gotta live it and let it write itself.

Jamaican? I thought you were some kind of outer space potato man.

The trouble with looking backwards is that its so damned embarrassing. No one ever looks back and thinks about how cool they were. I'm always incredibly ashamed of things I've done even six months ago. I have no idea what I'm doing right now that will embarrass the shit out of me a year from now, but I'm certain that I'm doing it.

---

People think someone who talks a lot is confident. "He's so confident. He's got opinions on everything." Did you ever stop and consider that maybe he's just terrified of awkward silence?

to expand...

People think someone confident is brave. "He just says what we're all thinking. That's why it's funny. I wish I'd had the nerve to just say it." Did you ever stop and consider that maybe he's just terrified that unless he says something, no one's gonna know it?
----

My wild goose chase of a Saturday had me all over the place. Off to PB. Off to Downtown. Off to Del Mar. Off to Caramel Valley? What?

We ended up in the largest house in the entire world. Contained inside was the largest television in the entire world. The girls there were all categorically similar, but I won't do the disservice of guessing at the country of origin. Names like Basma, Saddaf, Deema, etc.

It's funny. A common question was, "so how do you all know eachother?" as if the three members of the Lush Collective couldn't meet by natural means.

I was talking to one of them (who had a boyfriend? I'm still not sure on this.) And I lied and said I was a writer. That's not entirely a lie; I'm writing right now, but I said I was a published writer. That's a lie.

I don't even know why I did that. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I was incredibly drunk. The guy and girl who lived there were brother and sister and were very accommodating.

Why would you lie to someone you don't even know? Cause you can get away with it? The ease in which I lied made me completely second-guess first impressions. Scary. Especially with how significant first impressions are.

Even physically. Women. I'm going to paraphrase Chris Rock, but you're all a bunch of fucking liars.

Your hair isn't that straight, your skin isn't that flawless, you're not that tall, and your boobs aren't that perky. Your eyes, hair, nails, lips and skin aren't even the original colors. Typing that, I laugh.

And here's the insane thing: Guys don't even care. I so don't care. If I think you're pretty, you could show up in flat shoes with a curly afro wig and blue eyeliner and no bra and have a zit on your nose and I'd STILL probably think you're pretty. And I have "high standards". Sure you can cover this and enhance that but if we're ever gonna have a future together (and that's what this is all about, isn't it? nudge nudge) I'm gonna figure you out.

What if you walked up to a girl at your WORST.

Like this, for example.


What if instead of hyping up this first impression, I gave you my very worst. Unshowered, unshaven, barely awake. Exhausted. Faded brown tshirt and a smile full of toothpaste.

What if I still made you laugh, and what if you realized that this first impression--- it's all uphill from here.

How cool would that be? See people at their absolute most revolting- and decide if you can handle it. It's like an investment. Cause that guy in that picture up there cleans up really, really nice. And you liked him when he was disgusting. You just won the lottery!

Maybe it doesn't work that way, but it's a nice thought. I'd hate to meet a girl at a cocktail party and have to wear a tux for the rest of my life.


What if we met and I wasn't trying to impress you.



What would you say when I did?

run for your life.

run for your damned life. the future is here. it is.


I batted so badly on drunk dials tonight. Only the reliable ones answered. You have my everlasting gratitude.


want something poetic? Here. This is what I've got. This is what they've done to me.
---
[don't read too much into this.]


He wasn't a bad kisser. Not bad in the sense that you wouldn't want to kiss him again. She was startled, though, by the voracious desperation that he displayed any time his lips met hers.

Like he needed to kiss her to save his life. The kind of frantic, passionate desperation someone exhibits when they jam an epi-pen into their own thigh. The clenched, tooth-grinding desperation heard rattling like pills when someone's heart stops beating and the medicine lid is child-proof.

His obsession and her sadness were like poison.

He kisses her like her tongue had the antidote.


Like her breath would make him live forever, if he took in enough of it.










One kiss and he's building castles in her name.




---
five syllables in
and we're still so hopelessly
inevitable.


---

there's another line on the end but it's zero syllables. Sometimes it goes without saying.


----

here's good advice. Pick something and do it. While you're trying to figure out what to do, the world's not waiting up for you.

his Airness' esteemed resolve part one: l parenthesis a

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness



take a moment to appreceate the ridiculousness of the Michael Jordan comparison. Thanks.

In any case, biorhythms or whatever cyclical emotional rollercoasters I'm on have determined that it's John time. Straight up.

A bit of advice went like this: "Don't define yourself by someone else." More or les. Here's the idea: You've only got a limited amount of adjectives and descriptors to define yourself with- "The guy who likes that girl" shouldn't be part of it.

Refined, here's the idea again: I'm putting myself first for a while. I'm buying myself things, and I'm giving the magnum face and I'm focused on me.

Me Me Me Me Me.

Typing that out, I realize that it doesn't really change much. I guess I'm already sort of living for myself. I bought that guitar. Back in the gym. Eh.

Still though. It's funny; I'm doing a photoshoot on Friday and was told to bring something that describes myself. My friend Matt is bringing his camera. He's an artist. A creator.

I asked if I could bring a beer and a hot chick.


What's wrong there?

falling from space. the altimeter will save your life.

I want the kind of happiness I feel guilty about later.


That 'wrong' shit. That sickness.

Maybe I'm too high on this and that to even tell the difference right now. Check this out.


They say misery loves company, but it's not true. Miserable people don't love anything.

It should say "weakness" loves company. Weakness loves to share in weakness because it legitimizes weakness.

It feels really good to a) identify or b) create a problem, and then accept it. It makes me feel human. It's like coming to terms with your flaws. You get over the notion of being perfect (and all the stress that comes with pursuing perfection) and you just feel awesome.

Legitimizing weakness is what being a person is all about.


You and your friends can have all sorts of varied strengths. I'm sure that in your group of friends, you've got that book-smart guy. And you've got the guy you KNOW can count on to go to the gym with you. You've got a guy who gets you drugs and you've got a guy (or girl) who'll take care of you when you get too drunk. (Thank you.) You've got the guy who's gonna be your wingman. These are all potentially different people, but I'd bet you guys share in the same "weaknesses" every time.

I bet you and all those guys never really know where they stand with the girl in their life. I'll bet that you and all of them aren't sure where you're gonna be in five years, and you don't know what you'd do if you had to go back in time and prevent a disaster without seeming crazy.

I bet you and all your friends made fun of that fat kid, and maybe you felt bad about it later.



Am I the only person who smiles when they think, "This is wrong?"


Someone has a ridiculous and hillarious accent. And they don't speak English well enough to verbs the place in the right locations. (yes that was intentional.)

So you and your friend overhear him/her. Who's gonna laugh first? The answer is irrelevant, because you BOTH find it funny, and the moment one of you cracks, the other one will too. You've just made a bond out something "messed up."

Could this be out of line?


Yes. And there's nothing wrong with that.

the new hardness: part one of three: John the killa

sometimes you get the flash just right.




In the last week or so, I've been overcome with this sense of carelessness. Maybe care-free is the better word, but I'm hardly pulling any punches.

down, downforward, forward, fierce.

it's not a short fuse. A short temper. Short man syndrome. It's not any of those, but I've been pretty damned straightforward lately.

It's no coincidence, I'm sure, that I've been living at home for a week.

Without any responsibility, I've sort of regressed. I'm a badass 14 year old kid and I'm growing pubes and my voice is changing. What a tough guy.


for reals though, it's like I don't care what people think anymore. Not as much. This isn't a teenage rebellion thing. I'm not faking it, I'm just kind of over it.

living at home is different now. I've been living on my own for a very long time. I was worried about going back, but things are, as I said before, different.

And it's not home that changed, it's me. I'm not stressed anymore. You pay rent and handle roommates and scrounge for food long enough and mom and dad's house seems pretty cool. I'm not worried about what people will think of me when I tell them I live at home. I know I'm eating well. I know I'm not paying any rent. My roommates aren't telling me to do any dishes. And I'm not doing any, because other people are doing them. And cleaning the house. And cooking me dinner.

Girls? Please. Like I was having so many girls over last semester anyway. They're right; guy's rooms do smell. Now mine doesn't, cause my mom has good smelling things all over the house and it's well ventilated.



It's working for me, and it's sort of spilled over into my day-to-day. I feel lighter. I feel like a jerk. Like I'm getting away with things.





There's nothing sadder than a nice guy telling himself he's not one. I don't feel that way though. Kindness isn't weakness, etc etc. Right now, though, I feel like nails.




If you never tell a lie, you don't have to remember anything. Ever. You can make mistakes and fix them later, but as long as you never get caught in a lie, you'll be credible forever.



I wasn't a serial liar before, but I feel like a real straight shooter right now.




This is a good time to talk to me. You'll get something abrupt and abrasive and genuine and we'll eat snacks and marvel at what it's like to tell the truth.














This thing I'm building... man, I've got no idea.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...

So my room is small and messy. I have known this. But I apparently fulfill many 'emo' stereotypes with my room as well. Here are the fun ones that have been pointed out to me

Nothing in this room has been tampered with, at all. The tool kit is out because I was dismantling some shelves in the garage, and I needed a hex wrench.

Let's begin.

Step one. A guitar. What good is an emo kid without a guitar? How else will he let the world know how tormented he is? This guitar makes sure that everyone is aware that Tara Sexton broke my heart in 9th grade.

I bet the formatting on this is gonna look like ass.

Hey, check out garden state at the bottom. I didn't even notice that.

If you can't read that, it says "What should I do with my life?" No emo has any idea what he is going to do in the next three days, let alone his whole life. Why?

Because everyone knows an emo could die at any moment!! (see razorblades)

Just kidding. by the way that "what should I do with my life" book is total shit.

Most emos are, at their core, incredibly self centered. And what could be more self-centered than an INCREDIBLY EMO SELF PORTRAIT OF YOURSELF hung boldly on the wall of your own room!? Okay even I'm embarassed by this one.

Emos like to pretend they are well read. So laying on the floor, are some very trendy and very emo books. Chuck Pahlaniuk (bet I spelled that wrong) is like the king of all emos. And he's Gay! yee haw! They are of course, unread, because who could find time to read when they could be playing....

YET ANOTHER GUITAR! Cause sometimes one doesn't cut it. Pun intended. And is that a keyboard!? Synth emo!

Just for kicks, here are some wristbands. No explanation needed here.

sweet. oh and the bed is a mess because... uhh... a messy bed is emo.

Finally, the cherry on top:

My blog! yes I am reading my own blog. Because all emos are basically just masturbating mentally at the end of the day.

This is all one big coincidence, because I am undeniably NOT EMO, but I was pretty stoked with how many similarities there were.

So fuck off emo kids! I'm not like you. Except in most ways.

a bitter, sharply abusive denunciation.

I've hit bottom and it feels alright. Society demands that I shower regularly, but they cannot force me to shave!

I have grown what could very well be the worst beard in the entire world. It is as much social experiment as it is laziness- how long will it take before someone tells me to shave it off?

It is an odd feeling, to be sure. It felt like summer the other day, which is cliche but accurate. I'm not really thinking about school. Basically the same thing I was thinking about during the schoolyear.

I guess I'm not really thinking about anything. I had a dream that I cart-jacked the ARC golf cart, and was later caught. In the dream, everyone was cool with it and even replaced the cart with a newer, faster model. They were terrified, though, that I would just steal and lose it again. So I had acceptance but not trust. Maybe there's something to that.

What is significant is that I'm now dreaming about hypothetical nonsense instead of the standard emo-nightmares. It would be refreshing if it wasn't so boring. And even then, I'm not bored. I'm content, with a blanked out mind. Which is a bit scary.

It occurs to me now (at work, at the gym, working with people) that I should at least have done something to my hair. Straightened, styled, combed... shit, anything. Hat? My hair is crap.

Moving on...

I have no clear direction in sight right now. Nowhere to live. I turned down free housing and food, because of my loyalties to my job. What will that loyalty cost me? And was it worth it? Time will tell. I have no regrets (hence the lengthy myspace pseudonyms) and I am sure my decisions will pay off long term. Ish.

Lease is up in July. Then home with the parents. Then--- where?

I also need to write a new song. A song takes inspiration. Inspiration takes heartbreak. Heartbreak takes a girl.

If you are a girl and you would like to break my heart//have a song written about you, please feel free to apply. Send all resumes to trueslide(at)gmail(dot)com and we'll talk. AIM= slidetrue

The Science of Sleep fucked me up badly. It was like seeing an incredibly accurate charicature of myself. I appreceate and I am impressed by how much it resembles me, but I am also offended by it. I am made self conscious by it.

I have always maintained that if my life is at least interesting, I am doing something right. Life as a movie. That is to say, if someone would like to watch the current plot of my life in a movie, things are fine, whether I am up or down. That places boredom at the bottom tier.

This movie, though, made me feel badly. To the point where I am not sure I would watch it again. I think it is crucial (cruxial?) that in the movie of my life, no one feels bad for the main character.

Heavy.

Final Fantasy XII is running and ruining my life. Sidequest after sidequest after sidequest. 70 hours in ten days. Do the math.


Jesus Christ, I need a hobby.


Girls, apply now.

how to be paris hilton.

i) be sweet at all times.

ii) never hold anything

iii) if you walk past a mirror, always look at yourself in it.

iv) whenever you enter a house, always ask for toast and butter.

v) if you don't know what to say, just say "that's hot."

I was flipping through channels and the Simple Life was on. I hadn't seen this show in years and I was not going to start watching it now.

Paris was talking to a girl who looked a good deal like her.

"You're hot."
"Thanks, I think you're hot too."
"Thanks bitch."

Then she addressed a girl who looked even more like her.
"Your legs are killer, and you're hot. But you're also a boy and I think people will realize that."
I guess one of the Paris look-alikes was a man. Paris apparently needs a body double for something.

She finally chose the winner, a third contestant, and told her they had a lot of work to do; most important of which was memorizing the afforementioned rules. I changed the channel after that.

Why is this relevant?

Because I am only two rules away from being Paris Hilton.

So does anyone have any toast and butter?

No longer lofty!

What the shit. This is not epic. Doesn't have to be. I'm just gonna set too high a standard for myself here, and let everyone down.

I'm referring to the way this is written, not me drinking tonight. Just so you know.

So here's some things I'm thinking of: I like to wear board shorts the moment I get in the door, and I almost never wash them. How's that?

Yeah.


What now.


Oh and I'm getting FUCKED UP tonight probably. Wish YOU luck. Ha.