i'm trying to get these butterflies in my stomach to fly in formation.

this friday at my house in salem/northville.
bring whoever. and provide your own goddamn alcohol.

i'm not your mother.

let me know if you're up for stealing a shitload of money and moving to canada with me in search of interesting people and things to do.

because i've had it up to here with here.

i got fucking assfaced. pounded an eighth of a forty of molson ice. had a shot and a quarter of grape pucker. and got slut-fucked by 37 hot men.

god, i love being me.

við Áttum okkur draum.
Áttum allt.
við riðum heimsendi.

good shit.

is that ring around the collar?

or is your deathwish showing through?

"the believer's number one enemy is emotion."

that is completely retarded.

if the stars had a sound it would sound like this.
the punishment for these solemn words can be hard.
can blood boil like this at the sound of a noisy tape that i've heard.
i know one thing. on saturday, the sky will crumble together (or something) with a huge bang to fit into the cave.

tomorrow night. party at my house.
it's errin's birthday. or was anyway.

i'll be there at 11. be your sluttiest.