We know better, but they don't care.

Hey. I went away I came back. They call it fly over country for a reason, but I’ve forgotten what that reason is.

We’ve been drinking again. Hot Clique in crowd raging away at local party, three nights in a row. The host who boasts the most roast. That’s Morgan; he’s something else.

In other news, if you’ve been bitten by me in the last six months, please feel free to bite me back. Why the fuck does no one bite back? There is something vampiric about biting, and that I only do it at night, under the nightshade of much booze. Girls, women, I want to taste you, not literally eat you, and I haven’t had any action in a while, so I get at flesh like gangrene. Whoa hey.

Stee-Shirt night. Theme party: in my white tee, jiffy in hand. Tag tag tag your it, smash shit. Catch-phrase of the minute slap-dashed onto your billboard belly and I’m high from the fumes. The slogans pop into the writers mind quick and leave even faster; less brain cells holding on. Some of my attire from the art-night have been affixed to this slop.

Fuck list:
Blogs, thizz, E, rap, death, long cuticles, snot, hippers, hipsters, rappers, stink socks, E, boppers, zarffing, the birds laughing at you as the sun rises, jeans that fit too well, young hips, young skin, permanent ink, small dink, not setting your alarm, barfing, charfing, Fort McMurray, airports, dead presidents…

Shit:
Thinking about your buddies’ girlfriends. She sure is pretty, maybe. He’s your friend, for sure. I weigh the options; pros versus cons. Seventy percent of the time I wouldn’t fuck them because it’d ruin a good thing. Thirty percent ain’t half bad! I think I’ll be fucking myself for a while.