Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. I have signed my name a hundred times and am not even close to being done.
Shirt and tie hunting for a theme party I'm attending Friday. I already have the hat, and my purple sportcoat will do nicely. It's going to be totally fab. Since the death of Ceremony, I haven't had much of a reason to dress to the nines. Shiny shoes will be worn.
Hobbling out to The St. James Place Tavern to tell some jokes, drink beer, and relish existence outside of my bedroom tonight.
I do not drink PBR. I was raised better than that. I was raised on class. I was raised on quality. PBR is still good though, as everything from Wisconsin is generally good. Except for Jeffery Dahmer. He was sort of a dick, really.
One day, Old Style will become a hipster beer. I will travel to La Crosse, and blow up the brewery for the good of all mankind.
I have this pile of wool socks on my floor that just sort of stays there because I'm not working or doing anything requiring warm feet. I think I may put them in a drawer later, if I'm not to busy listening to obscure Kylie Minogue covers of Roxy Music songs.
Satan most definitely fufilled His end of this bargain. Possibly the best pop song ever written. Perfect isn't a good enough word to describe it.
You know what's retarded expensive? Kitchens. Best to never get a wife who wants a new one every ten years, "just because."
I believe I'll have grilled cheese for lunch today.
I will not relocate there.-BK
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