Correr es mi Destino

[i_miss_sleeping]

And having eaten a chocolate chip cookie with a cold glass of milk, written a long (and soggy) letter to someone across the sea--having found a machine (probably older than his parents) that told him he weighed 95 pounds, and that if he dreamt of dogs, it meant he was lonely, and that his future was "safe enough" (all for the price of a penny)--and having walked across a hill with a chapel surrounded by the fog of its own intellectual hot air, breathing fire and smoke from his nostrils and lungs with the sounds of an organ spinning making his head swim, our soggy hero returns (with his soggy pen and his soggy notebook) to his significantly less soggy room, where he will seek out the half-filled flask of Tenessee Whiskey he saves for nights like these.

I think it's finally here. I think I've gone clean off the fucking deep end. (To the tune of turntables no less) This story would be funnier if it weren't 100% truth.

~Pawel