Alone
That's not the title to a gay poem that I'm about to write. Because, you know, I'm not. Although it may be the title to a gay poem that someone else has written already. That seems probable. A fat, emo chick probably wrote it. While she was crying. And cutting herself. And eating. And putting blood in her food. And then complaining that there's blood in her food. Because she's a fat, emo chick. And that's what they do; complain. You know what? All women complain, but I'm not going to get into that. That's already a well known fact. Everyone complains. I complain. A lot. About stupid things. Wait a second...
SHUT THE FUCK UP, PHILOSORAPTOR! NO ONE ASKED FOR YOUR OPINION!
Ahem... Excuse that sudden outburst.
What the fuck was I writing this entry for again?... AH, YES! Alone. Loneliness. Everyone in my suite left for the weekend. Now I'm the only person in the goddamn room. As I sit here writing the blog entry, naked, I'm pretty fucking bored. I just went on a mini-rant about fat, emo chicks. That kinda bored. I need a drink in me, pronto! And a blunt. Oh god how a blunt would make my day. This would be pretty fucking trippy, though. All of the lights are off and the curtain is down. This is mainly because I'm naked, but that's besides the point. The only thing lighting this barren hellhole is the shine from my computer screen. And thiiiiiis cryyyyyyyyyystal baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall. It's always cloudy, except for, when you look into the past. One. Night. Staaaaaaaaaaaand. One night stand, OH! ONE NIGHT! ONE MORE TIME! Thanks for the memories... SHUFFLE MOTHA-FUCKA!
Modern Warfare 2 is almost out. Just under 17 days and I'll be playing one the most anticipated games of 2009. Nay; OF ALL TIME!
I thought I'd bring that up. What? You didn't need to know that? FUCK YOU!
Someone should totally come to Albany and keep me company. And by company, I mean company. No fat, emo chicks. Skinny, emo chicks are a bit iffy, but whatever.
OK; no emo chicks. At all. Let me take you where I live. Ferrari switch. When I whisper in your ears, your legs hit the chandeliers. Passion fruit and sex all in the atmosphere.
COCOA BUTTA.
Not everything written with caps lock switched on needs an excalmation point at the end.
SHUT THE FUCK UP, PHILOSORAPTOR! NO ONE ASKED FOR YOUR OPINION!Ahem... Excuse that sudden outburst.
What the fuck was I writing this entry for again?... AH, YES! Alone. Loneliness. Everyone in my suite left for the weekend. Now I'm the only person in the goddamn room. As I sit here writing the blog entry, naked, I'm pretty fucking bored. I just went on a mini-rant about fat, emo chicks. That kinda bored. I need a drink in me, pronto! And a blunt. Oh god how a blunt would make my day. This would be pretty fucking trippy, though. All of the lights are off and the curtain is down. This is mainly because I'm naked, but that's besides the point. The only thing lighting this barren hellhole is the shine from my computer screen. And thiiiiiis cryyyyyyyyyystal baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall. It's always cloudy, except for, when you look into the past. One. Night. Staaaaaaaaaaaand. One night stand, OH! ONE NIGHT! ONE MORE TIME! Thanks for the memories... SHUFFLE MOTHA-FUCKA!
Modern Warfare 2 is almost out. Just under 17 days and I'll be playing one the most anticipated games of 2009. Nay; OF ALL TIME!
I thought I'd bring that up. What? You didn't need to know that? FUCK YOU!
Someone should totally come to Albany and keep me company. And by company, I mean company. No fat, emo chicks. Skinny, emo chicks are a bit iffy, but whatever.
OK; no emo chicks. At all. Let me take you where I live. Ferrari switch. When I whisper in your ears, your legs hit the chandeliers. Passion fruit and sex all in the atmosphere.
COCOA BUTTA.
Not everything written with caps lock switched on needs an excalmation point at the end.
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Shit in 'dis bitch:
Ramblings
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