today i went in at 3:00pm.
i got out at 10:30.
seven minute break and all.
there is no way in hell this and school are gonna mix well. it takes me an hour and change to do my fucking math homework, and so far that was just algebra fucking two. pre-calc is gonna shit my diddies in a big way, and it seems unlikely at best to hold out hope for doing math homework around midnight for two hours before going to school at nine in the a.m. and then somehow not smashing every precious thing you shipped to new jersey into a quintillion pieces.
friday was alright; got out before ten, came home and got drunk and passed out before i could do any real damage.
saturday was a ear bleedingly bloody horrible show at a really cool farm in princeton. ian's band was the best there, and that's damning to the umpteenth circle of hell with faint praise, because every other thing that made noise for miles around sucked harder and for a longer duration than my entire relationship with chelsea. IT SUCKED THIIIIS MUCH.
first band: rap and pantera, poorly executed, replete with sports jersey and bestickered off brand guitars.
i think the second band was a bunch of out of shape hippies with a hand drum and a stick with a bell on it dancing in a circle.
by that time, time became a non-sequitir and free range black folk took the "stage" (a three inch riser, probably made of cardboard and hen poop) to regale and beguile the hopefully drunk audience (no liquor store for miles) with classics such as "suck on my teats". i think.
probably around then ian's band went on.
and then the rest of the evening cascaded into flutes and hideous people with flutes and there was a band with a flute. also, hippies.
there was a hippie with a crutch though, and he kept giving me the shark eye while i gorged myself on kettle chips. because that's what food there was. sorry if you're homeless, buddy, but when i get stoned+drunk, there is but one cure for my hunger: food. more alcohol would've been nice, but that'd be asking too much. actually, asking too much would've been seeing if i could get some kind of poisonous gas pumped into the outhouse to dash some hippies with, but it's not the kind of thing you want to put out the locals with.
oh, and by the way, this all happened on the same date as the, like, ORIGINAL WOODSTOCK. ohmygod, i think weird cover band dude is gonna start channeling me some joe cocker!
he didn't. he played beatles and nirvana covers with a way too nice guitar/amp setup.
OH. FUCKING. SHIT. i left the best part out.
so, i'm sure at some point in the illustrious archives of my (expletive/modifier deleted) life, i may have mentioned attempting to rock out at rodney's house with mark and ian. along for that ride was one bald and unfortunately tattooed fellow named chris. possibly from cranford. who knows.
ANYWHO.
so, chris had gone to prison, only to rise, a glorious winged butterfly from his prison pupa to ruin green day and nirvana songs for a bunch of hippies too drunk to know any better in some old man's yard. spank god, because i got to find out the WHY and WHEREFORE of his imprisonment.
get ready, get ready,...
he dropped a baby and it died.
he dropped a baby and it died.
MAYBE.
i see it more likely being, "hey, little chris-alis, you're kinda fucking daddy's sex life up, and also you're a puke spitting little shit machine. guess what? chris-rizon has DROPPED YOUR-"
it's at this point, between glass brillo pipe hits and just general bad taste, that our man, chris, realizes he's made a mistake. no ligature marks? oh, just a simple case of acronym. give the fucker two years; he'll polish up right good.
fucking yuck. judging by his apologetic, mournful, "rebellious" taste in cover music, i'd say he's using an unhealthy vice to atone for his personal...can't really think of a proper good word for baby killer. <--- actually, think i've got it.
seven minute break and all.
there is no way in hell this and school are gonna mix well. it takes me an hour and change to do my fucking math homework, and so far that was just algebra fucking two. pre-calc is gonna shit my diddies in a big way, and it seems unlikely at best to hold out hope for doing math homework around midnight for two hours before going to school at nine in the a.m. and then somehow not smashing every precious thing you shipped to new jersey into a quintillion pieces.
friday was alright; got out before ten, came home and got drunk and passed out before i could do any real damage.
saturday was a ear bleedingly bloody horrible show at a really cool farm in princeton. ian's band was the best there, and that's damning to the umpteenth circle of hell with faint praise, because every other thing that made noise for miles around sucked harder and for a longer duration than my entire relationship with chelsea. IT SUCKED THIIIIS MUCH.
first band: rap and pantera, poorly executed, replete with sports jersey and bestickered off brand guitars.
i think the second band was a bunch of out of shape hippies with a hand drum and a stick with a bell on it dancing in a circle.
by that time, time became a non-sequitir and free range black folk took the "stage" (a three inch riser, probably made of cardboard and hen poop) to regale and beguile the hopefully drunk audience (no liquor store for miles) with classics such as "suck on my teats". i think.
probably around then ian's band went on.
and then the rest of the evening cascaded into flutes and hideous people with flutes and there was a band with a flute. also, hippies.
there was a hippie with a crutch though, and he kept giving me the shark eye while i gorged myself on kettle chips. because that's what food there was. sorry if you're homeless, buddy, but when i get stoned+drunk, there is but one cure for my hunger: food. more alcohol would've been nice, but that'd be asking too much. actually, asking too much would've been seeing if i could get some kind of poisonous gas pumped into the outhouse to dash some hippies with, but it's not the kind of thing you want to put out the locals with.
oh, and by the way, this all happened on the same date as the, like, ORIGINAL WOODSTOCK. ohmygod, i think weird cover band dude is gonna start channeling me some joe cocker!
he didn't. he played beatles and nirvana covers with a way too nice guitar/amp setup.
OH. FUCKING. SHIT. i left the best part out.
so, i'm sure at some point in the illustrious archives of my (expletive/modifier deleted) life, i may have mentioned attempting to rock out at rodney's house with mark and ian. along for that ride was one bald and unfortunately tattooed fellow named chris. possibly from cranford. who knows.
ANYWHO.
so, chris had gone to prison, only to rise, a glorious winged butterfly from his prison pupa to ruin green day and nirvana songs for a bunch of hippies too drunk to know any better in some old man's yard. spank god, because i got to find out the WHY and WHEREFORE of his imprisonment.
get ready, get ready,...
he dropped a baby and it died.
he dropped a baby and it died.
MAYBE.
i see it more likely being, "hey, little chris-alis, you're kinda fucking daddy's sex life up, and also you're a puke spitting little shit machine. guess what? chris-rizon has DROPPED YOUR-"
it's at this point, between glass brillo pipe hits and just general bad taste, that our man, chris, realizes he's made a mistake. no ligature marks? oh, just a simple case of acronym. give the fucker two years; he'll polish up right good.
fucking yuck. judging by his apologetic, mournful, "rebellious" taste in cover music, i'd say he's using an unhealthy vice to atone for his personal...can't really think of a proper good word for baby killer. <--- actually, think i've got it.