Caffeine Pills And Extra Time.
Oh how I love this ongoing battle between my attention span and boredom.
It's almost like I need it to really feel like me.
Kind of like I depend on next to no sleep, I'm only me if I've got those big black circles under my eyes waiting for the challenge of a bright new day.
I'm supposed to bear with her, but I think I might pass out before too long.
Vicodin, baby. Viiiiiiiicodin. It's an amazing little gadget, caffeine be damned.
I feel like getting high and playing my little Warcraft game. It's such fun, afterall.
I don't feel like actually playing it so much as I feel like watching it. I might watch a movie, but they're not big on comedies here. Eh. I feel like if I do anything but talk to someone it's going to wear me out and knock me out.
I leave today. For the land of Rosenberg.
To finish out my fucking community service.
And my fucking drug rehab.
Well, to start that shit.
And to notify that my address has been changed. On the bright side it would appear I am only one county over from where I was originally punished, so they shouldn't give me shit in which case I should be allowed to transfer all of my God damned rehab shit over to there.
Then I'll have to hit Rosenberg once a month to see my P.O. Which works fine by me.
If I'm lucky they might transfer me to a Houston branch.
Wondrous things about these huge cities is drug tests come few and far between.
The system wears down these poor social working degenerates in such a way it's delightful to my eyes, ears, and any other sense that I may not be able to think of due to the residual amounts of happy stuck inside my cranium.
Oh, it spews forth.
Kind of like cocaine, but not with that same edge.
I don't think I'd even like that edge anymore.
I like the new one I have.
Sincere hatred and loathing for all other things that stand before me.
It's nifty.
I'm talking to Lou right now.
Females named Lou have to be alright, I figure.
Dogs named Lou need to fucking die a horrid death involving rust and chains, though.
Anyway. Enough rambling. Time to make nice with the gal pals and whatnot.
Thanks to Monica for finding me this delightful little picture, though.
This is truly one of the best I've ever seen. I love it.
Thank you, ma cher.
Now. Rot.
It's almost like I need it to really feel like me.
Kind of like I depend on next to no sleep, I'm only me if I've got those big black circles under my eyes waiting for the challenge of a bright new day.
I'm supposed to bear with her, but I think I might pass out before too long.
Vicodin, baby. Viiiiiiiicodin. It's an amazing little gadget, caffeine be damned.
I feel like getting high and playing my little Warcraft game. It's such fun, afterall.
I don't feel like actually playing it so much as I feel like watching it. I might watch a movie, but they're not big on comedies here. Eh. I feel like if I do anything but talk to someone it's going to wear me out and knock me out.
I leave today. For the land of Rosenberg.
To finish out my fucking community service.
And my fucking drug rehab.
Well, to start that shit.
And to notify that my address has been changed. On the bright side it would appear I am only one county over from where I was originally punished, so they shouldn't give me shit in which case I should be allowed to transfer all of my God damned rehab shit over to there.
Then I'll have to hit Rosenberg once a month to see my P.O. Which works fine by me.
If I'm lucky they might transfer me to a Houston branch.
Wondrous things about these huge cities is drug tests come few and far between.
The system wears down these poor social working degenerates in such a way it's delightful to my eyes, ears, and any other sense that I may not be able to think of due to the residual amounts of happy stuck inside my cranium.
Oh, it spews forth.
Kind of like cocaine, but not with that same edge.
I don't think I'd even like that edge anymore.
I like the new one I have.
Sincere hatred and loathing for all other things that stand before me.
It's nifty.
I'm talking to Lou right now.
Females named Lou have to be alright, I figure.
Dogs named Lou need to fucking die a horrid death involving rust and chains, though.
Anyway. Enough rambling. Time to make nice with the gal pals and whatnot.
Thanks to Monica for finding me this delightful little picture, though.
This is truly one of the best I've ever seen. I love it.
Thank you, ma cher.
Now. Rot.