Sunday night is the best night of the week for me. Without question. Drinking and dancing to industrial, hard, aggressive music in a dirty bar with people dressed in black followed by a seamless transition to a mostly gay after hours club, where we dance to Top 40, and get "cruised" in the bathroom by Abercrombie clones. Totally Hot. Then, we go to the type of restaurant one would never patronize unless they were drunk and/or it was the only place open at 4am. Life's troubles are given a "fuck off, dick" every Sunday night without fail. Fun times!
There are more dishes on the floor in my room than in the cabinets in my kitchen. The dishes aren't clean. If I can keep my body smelling worse than the dishes, a fragile peace can be had.
I don't care about Michael Phelps. At all. He can't do this, but that's not why I don't care. He embodies everything that's bad about America. He is greedy, selfish, arrogant, and wins through science and being well funded. I'm sure he has heart and grit too, but I'm fucking tired of hearing about him!
Man. And I thought I was pissing fire after that ill-advised trip to West Virginia! Ba dum bum.
I cannot count the number of ways in which this makes me very, very happy.
A nice vintage.
There are many, many bands today that need to be tied to a chair, have their eyelids taped open, and be forced to watch the above for hours upon hours upon hours. That's rock and roll right there!
Axl shares a birthday with me. Every year. He's in the lead by a few years though. Reagan shares a birthday with me too, but fuck that dead Republican twat.
I made an Axl-like grunting sound this morning. I was pooping though, so it wasn't sexy. For most of you at least. I however, am sexy even whilst poopin'.
If I had to name myself after a car part and a flower, I think I'd be "Piston Petunia."
Seriously though. To be alive and living in Hollywood, near the Sunset Strip in 1984-89!? Seriously.
We need to get matching tattoos. Group discount!-BK
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