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Good Christ. So then, it was sobriety for the past four days or so. Not a puff of the pot. Not a sniff or a twist of the shit. Not a pill. And it all comes back, the pain I've been trying for the past ten months to anesthetize. Big surprise: it's not like I healed anything by ignoring it all. She's back, with her pointy little face and her mary jane eyes. I can't take it -- life sans-Mami is hell. Life with her was hell too, but at least I had a fellow buttcheek, ya heard? Taco Bell, Starbucks. Two viable job options. I hate Vector worse than anything. Worse than anything in the whole world. I want to join the Army. Then I'll be like, "Yeah, bitch, what now?" And kick some ass, jack-booted thug style. YOU KNOW HOW WE DO. Britney Spears "Toxic" world tour stop, Verizon Ampitheater, August. Me and Pro-Pitcher and Sandra, the Britney Is Hot Club. T-shirts? Hats? Posters? Websites? Vibrators? I think so. (Can we discuss the part where she's got black hair and she bursts into the room with the flowy thing, all in slow motion? Let's just pause to consider that. Let's just pause to consider what I want to do to her... is she the new Shakira?) Enough. Bus, here I come. |
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stressed.