Darvocet. Tussin. Numerous other medications.

It's not fair to feel this way before 8 a.m.

Fucking sick. Again. It's a great feeling to have swollen lymphnodes just oozing dark yellow pus, going down your throat, and making it sore.

And, not to mention, I get a phone call from a collection agency, wondering why I have not paid my ER bill. I told the pompus, arrogant bastard I'll start paying for it as soon as he sends me the fucking ( Read more... )

I feel sick ( Read more... )

Nothing going on, really.

Cramming the NEC, trying to get everything in line. Working my ass off, and waiting for my one last visit. It's been five fucking years.

And I'm stoned. And it's great.

Coolest thing by far? My frind bought a used record. Van Halen's 1984. Inside of the jacket? A pack of JOB 1.5's.

I've got a plan.

As soon as I get a video camera in my hands, it's on.

It's sick, demented, twisted, and deranged. And it just might work. Writing out the basic blueprints of it, and as soon as it's going, more will come.

Out of all the half-baked ideas I have ever had, this one is the best.

Swept under the rug,

way in the back of your underwear drawer.

Clogging of a drain,

dust on the dashboard.

A widow on a church pew, still believing,

and the absurdity of it all just seems to make me laugh.; 

Weird shit, indeed ( Read more... )

Interview went good ( Read more... )

Happy late St. Patrick's day, and shit like that.

Getting ready to go to a job interview. Have more details later.

It all happened as I was walking to the bathroom, getting ready to shave when I heard the name Hunter S. Thompson over the television.

I stopped what I was doing, and I went into the living room. After the news report, I went into my room, lit a cigarette, and smoked and stared at the floor. The words Self-Inflicted Gunshot Wound.Jesus Christ, why ( Read more... )