Breaking the Fourth Commandment...

My God is Biggie and he reiterated the old adage, "Never get high on your own supply," but the devil made me do it, and that devil's name is fuck-them-all-boring-ass-Omaha. His last name is Fassbinder. But whatever, I'm not going to talk about the last post, or any post or unwritten letters or mute rappers or the fuckin photgraphic memory that I no longer have. I want to write about how happy I am to be in this indie chick's room right now eating Rocky Mountain trail mix, our greasy fingers touching in the bowl while she let's me have all the M&M's. Why is it that I only feel like I'm gay when I'm fucked up? Wait, don't answer that one, it's a freebie. All I can say is that I'm looking forward to doing tons more fat lines with this chick in the tight blue jeans and watching The World's Wildest Police Videos and getting turned on by the 30 second phone sex commercials and compensating for all the energy, the handcuffs, the flashing lights and lives being flushed down the toilet without the benefit of a blurred out face or a floating blue fucking dot by calling up and ordering one of those albums advertised with the 1-800 numbers, fucking "In The Closet and You Know It Dance Hits" or "I Wish I Hadn't Smoked The 80's Away Crap Rock".

It'll be on when she hears me pay with a C.O.D. I think she's like, 17. I feel like chicken tonight!!!

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