February 22, 2014

  • Jacked-Up-Journalism

    Xanga should go ahead and make an app now. I feel like $48 a year is worth an app.

    Spawn should die. I feel like any amount of rent per month is worth him dying. Haha.

    Bob Marley is hitting me with some music right now, right in the Trenchtown-Rock ...
    I'm chugging a Lonie ...
    And hitting a bowl ...
    And doing some rush ...
    And now Green Day's giving me some Novacaine.

    [Drain the pressure from the swelling;
    This sensation's overwhelming;
    Give me a long kiss goodnight and
    Everything will be alright.
    Tell me that I won't feel a thing;
    Give me Novacaine.]

    There's a familiarity in these notes that feels like a a good drug or a good friend. Maybe both. And you too, Xanga. What a good drug or friend you are. Both.

    And I love both. I love being happy. But I want some Summertime Sadness right now. Because after all, I am still just Summertime-Sad.

    FUCK FOOTBALL. FUCK THE SEAHAWKS. FUCK FOOTBALL!!!!!! Why Broncos, WHY?!!! Ohhhhhhhh :(

    Me and Carlton need to learn to duet to "Two is Better Than One" by Boys Like Girls and Taylor Swift. YUP! You're right, that IS the lamest thing in the world. Sue me. My mom already has.

    I'm the real Slim Shady. But I'm sitting down.

    This is a new form of writing I'm calling "Jacked-Up-Journalism". In a nutshell, it's just me getting fucked up and letting my fingers write whatever they feel like while I'm doing so; sans nutshell.
    50% Gonzo Journalism, 50% more fucked up.

    Substances Ingested (so far):
    + Two Lone-Stars down the hatch
    + Two bowls of Ganja smoked
    + Half a bottle o' Rush to go
    + Two Vyvanse popped about 7:05ish
    *Cracking another Loner and sipping up*

    I'm glad I'm writing I'm writing this.
    I'm glad I'm trying.
    But I know when to stop.

    I hope I'll know when to come back.