like a wet ed harris.
i have now read alane moore's entire run of swamp thing. it is in all effin'-actuality my new favorite thing combining pitchers, words words words, and alan moore. better than watchmen. swamp thing could kill batman, without breaking his back, and probably rationalize rorschach.
what the dickshits is up with fmu's goddamn internet feed? why does it all sound like an mp3 from years ago?
whatever.
oh, I GOT A FUCKING JOB.
come monday, i will be trained in the ups preloading arts. also, steve, you're doing it wrong.
last friday was a more than ridiculous exaltation of the combination of thin paper, colors, and a vicar's piss. there was climbing of the cancer giving towers, viddying of stuff blowin' the eff up over yon, and also drinking. drinking, yessss.
saturday i got dumb fucking drunk at mark's. we wound up hanging out with sophia for some period of time, at which point i started to ride my bike home and said: "fuck it: tonight, i'm sleeping under the alj bleachers on a pallet". so, yeah, this is the part of the story where i did that. some dickshit doing laps up and down the damn things aroused me, and my ire, and i rode my bike home with the best mead hangover i ever had. yeah, it was great.
fuck. i lost my train of thought in a major way.