Plane flights look unable to secure themselves without plague.
There was an amazing accident underway as I rolled up onto the ramp that headed Eastward. I think by the time my car finally stopped tumbling and pushing through the burning remains of countless other large twisted smudges of steel and rubber and wires and glass, by then all but indistinguishable as automobiles, I’d unintentionally gotten quite
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From the veranda I can see a remarkable view of the valley. Behind me, coiled under the crushed velvet sheets of my $3,000 bed, are two girls I’ve been doing all morning. One of them is Tobe Vail, who played in a band called The Frumpies. Back when she was in a shitty country outfit from Olympia called Bikini Kill, we had a past. At the time she was dating Kurt Cobain from another reputable Washington band called Nirvana, and when he found a flip book one afternoon while she was on tour, of hand-drawn sketches by H.R. Giger depicting a very aroused Tobe pulling my clothes off in a hotel suite at Niagra Falls, he fucking flipped out on her and the relationship ended. Since then Tobe and I have kept things under wraps.
The second girl under the sheets this morning is someone I met at a Sleater-Kinney show last month. She’s an ex-medical student with short black hair and a beautiful rack, who is now unemployed. As a three-piece, we’re awesome. If I was a smoker I’d be taking in a Winston. I’m sure they’ll both be at the Newport 100s when they finally get the fuck up off my bed.
I won’t allow anyone to smoke in my bedroom, because baby, that’s disgusting.
Signed,
Neil Garriscond.
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