I hope that everyone is celebrating either Stanley Steemer's or Leed's Matresses' Unheard of President's Day. Although I would love to take off my hat and remember William Henry Harrison, unfortunately I can't. He did kill Tecumseh after all.
My SAT tutor looks like Damien Rice, I'm thrilled about Coachella, and spending the summer's hours in Costa Rica with my love is going to be marvellous. Things are good. Aside from that, this weekend gave me a newfound affinity for illegal bonfires in Malibu with friends and Jack Daniel's. Despite the brawling on the side of PCH, the bobcat in Topanga wilderness, getting stranded on the side of a highway, my shirt being pulled off in a moshpit, and being at the rainy Whiskey A Go-Go where whisky was a no-go, I'm smiling.
And then I remember the bad things. I just remembered the bad things. At this point I never want to talk to a few people ever again. Either the weak-minded or the emotionally complex aspects of you all are killing me. You have all shot that whole "Chicks before Dicks" truism to hell. So fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you and all that we've been through. It's hell when you're around.