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scumbag's bag of shit
"there was totally a receipt for milk in my panties."


Current Mood: hungry hungry

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"You don't have any hair, so how do you keep your head on straight?"

I sat in the far end booth of greasily lit White Castle with the displeasure you have when you get your pubic hair caught in meat grinder. I like to call this specific displeasure Carlos. His glazed over eyes and lack of expression were nothing new, but they were as annoying as the day I met him.

"So? How do you keep it straight? Your head, I mean."

He had asked me this every day for what had seemed like years, but in all actuality it'd only been a half hour. The rancid smell of stream grilled onions drifting across the table with every syllable burned the hair right out of my nostrils. I had no response to his question and I never would have had one. Not in a million years would I have one and he knew this. To him, asking this question was like a caged monkey with a button that pumps him full of morphine at his desire. I was just hoping he'd end up dead like our simian counterpart.

I emerged from that grease cocoon into the grimy summer stench. Every article of clothing stuck to me like a dying fetus clings to life. Carlos stuck even closer. His incessant badgering died under that summer sun along with every other living thing around us. We wandered the death valley of a parking lot, looking for my car for five and a half years or a few minutes. Much like this story, there was nowhere left to go and nothing left to say.

The next 10 years were a blur for me. Or had it only been 2 days? The only thing I really know is that things were blurry for a while and Carlos was no longer with us. Was that retarded mexican nothing more than a figment of my imagination or did he really die that night in Birmingham? His name was never in the obituaries, but that doesn't explain very much. Carlos would never be important enough to be recognized and especially in print.

As for me, I ended up on the internet. That's how I can share this piece of shrapnel lodged in my memory. It's just an uncomfortable fragment of a story that I can't get out of my brain.

Current Location: Asleep
Current Mood: groggy groggy

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Current Mood: groggy groggy

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went to the doctor and made out like a bandit on the medication. 30 vicodin with a refill! 60 fucking pills of motherfucking vicodin! i'll be set for a couple of weeks with that kind of bounty.

this makes me very happy... and itchy.

Current Mood: itchy

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My car:

His van:

I hate vans.

Current Mood: really really sore

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So... quick update since I haven't been doing so in the last few months. I've been working two jobs. My band recorded in a studio a month or so ago and we're all broke. Since, we haven't practiced or progressed, but we haven't broken up. Since the recording, I've been a bit of a recluse. I haven't hung out with too many people or really talked to anybody since.

Latest news: got into a car accident. Totaled my car and fucked myself and Emily up pretty bad (but nothing deadly). Pictures are in my previous post.

Other than that, everything's been going ok I suppose.

Current Mood: really really sore

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Current Mood: sore sore

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i almost threw my beer bottle at the t.v.

Current Mood: predatory predatory
Current Music: Metro I.D. - Silver Bullet

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I came across this while taking a survey after beta testing "battlefield: modern combat" for ps2. Out of context it sounds rather ridiculous.

Current Mood: exhausted exhausted
Current Music: ariel pink - for kate i wait

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Current Mood: sad sad
Current Music: mitch hedburg - teeth

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