John Mayer is a panty pirate
wow so this is like round 17 of using a live journal, not using one, using one. I'm bored. I'm doing it.
I'm sitting here at Zots like I always am. A newfangled 24 hour coffee shop for people who are too indie to go to rue de la course. Not that I'm any better I guess. I'd rather scowl at these people with tattoos than scowl at people that are probably listening to Maroon 5 on their headphones.
Dorothy is sitting across from me blowing smoke at me telling me that she is fucking sick of being here. She's always "fucking sick" of something. I guess thats why we get along so famously. I guess I'm gonna have to cart her ass somewhere soon. She's taken handfulls of concerta yet still managed to fall asleep in her chair. She wakes up only to spout off a string of profanity about the general public. Or eat a flourless chocolate brownie. God whoever thought flourless chocolate is good is the same person who thought soy milk tastes good.
Well I'm heading out of here for good in three days. I still haven't packed too much and I'm not excited about the drive home. Nor am I incredibly excited about spending a long amount of time in nashville. I was reading random nashville livejournals. This whole world has been created there by uneducated 19 year olds centered around garage bands and casual sex. I guess thats what I was doing three years ago. But I can still judge. I always judge. It'll be nice to see my real friends though.
I got mugged. I saw a crackhead be beaten senseless by three police officers. I've had a cigarette put out on my leg. Dorothy drove my car like a blindfolded monkey into another car and into a curb. Now she's across from me laughing hysterically. Its good i'm leaving. we get into too much trouble together. I hate New Orleans. We end up threatening to drive to Mexico and we've made it once as far as Lake Ponchartrain and once as far as Mississippi. (wrong direction I know) but we were packing heat though. Nothing like shooting off pistols at sunrise.
I guess I can't blame New Orleans. I would get into trouble anywhere I guess. The man who fixed my flat tire asked me if my father was Stephen King. I didn't get it and I said "no its Robert King" he told me to lighten up. I told him to lighten up. Then I got it...like the author...my name is king...hilarious...fucking asshole
Well I'm using my cellular neuroscience book as an ashtray. I guess I should find something more productive to do. Like pack, or find some speed.
I'm sitting here at Zots like I always am. A newfangled 24 hour coffee shop for people who are too indie to go to rue de la course. Not that I'm any better I guess. I'd rather scowl at these people with tattoos than scowl at people that are probably listening to Maroon 5 on their headphones.
Dorothy is sitting across from me blowing smoke at me telling me that she is fucking sick of being here. She's always "fucking sick" of something. I guess thats why we get along so famously. I guess I'm gonna have to cart her ass somewhere soon. She's taken handfulls of concerta yet still managed to fall asleep in her chair. She wakes up only to spout off a string of profanity about the general public. Or eat a flourless chocolate brownie. God whoever thought flourless chocolate is good is the same person who thought soy milk tastes good.
Well I'm heading out of here for good in three days. I still haven't packed too much and I'm not excited about the drive home. Nor am I incredibly excited about spending a long amount of time in nashville. I was reading random nashville livejournals. This whole world has been created there by uneducated 19 year olds centered around garage bands and casual sex. I guess thats what I was doing three years ago. But I can still judge. I always judge. It'll be nice to see my real friends though.
I got mugged. I saw a crackhead be beaten senseless by three police officers. I've had a cigarette put out on my leg. Dorothy drove my car like a blindfolded monkey into another car and into a curb. Now she's across from me laughing hysterically. Its good i'm leaving. we get into too much trouble together. I hate New Orleans. We end up threatening to drive to Mexico and we've made it once as far as Lake Ponchartrain and once as far as Mississippi. (wrong direction I know) but we were packing heat though. Nothing like shooting off pistols at sunrise.
I guess I can't blame New Orleans. I would get into trouble anywhere I guess. The man who fixed my flat tire asked me if my father was Stephen King. I didn't get it and I said "no its Robert King" he told me to lighten up. I told him to lighten up. Then I got it...like the author...my name is king...hilarious...fucking asshole
Well I'm using my cellular neuroscience book as an ashtray. I guess I should find something more productive to do. Like pack, or find some speed.