Move Fakaz

Party girl went out on Thurs for some sucka-ass venda sponsored "mixer." While always up for free drinks (even at the expense of having to listen to spiel from the aforementioned sucka-ass venda, unfortunately I could not attend. It was on Thurs before we had Fri off for a long weekend. Weak.
For always talking shit about partying and only showing up when you know damn well next to noone is gonna be there, you, Party Girl, are a move faker. And need ta getcha back blown in Jamaica.
One love, D-Ring... where are YOU at?

With all due respect

GFY. Noone has written on this here blog for quite some time, and with good reason. We barely have the will to get out of bed, or off the couch... or floor, every morning to greet the day of being a complete mess of a human and puked-in shadow of the aspirations of our youth, let alone tell the noone that reads this thing about it. Now the case magically disappeared, and we all have dick to do again, and staring at the internet all day is like looking directly into your soul to see what you really are: A brown (empty) box with tattered tape surrounding it, a used FedEx label and nothing inside. Ahh, introspection. Sitting in a room full of boxes full of shit I could give two shits about, with more boxes sitting in the hallway with stuff I care even less about, that need to be sent to the room at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, is really f'ing depressing! It's true. And writing about it blows.

I need to club a seal. And drink.