Things got weird there at the end,

but I made it through.

More to come.


...
..
.

Then, with that meat, I knew what it felt to be a beast.

I think I know what the vampyr feels.

Nine dollars in my pocket,

flippy-floppys on muh feet,
and 0.6 miles to saunter on a beautiful day.

I'm fuckin' comin' for YOU, Voodoo Doughnut.

"Cheeky?"

"Cheeky, yah."

"TOO cheeky?"

"Maybe a little, yah."

Is it the quality of the gear?  Is there any quality to be had in such gear?  Have I, just this moment, only now realized that I've been submit to the discourtesy of believing jewelry to not be a forum formgn  vlkwkj r jjk  j rjgg jj og .v;. . [ ][pbn ./. /

I think I feel a Hyde growing in me.

(Muah hah.)

I was in love with you, but didn't, I realize now, love you.

Fuck. YEAH.

Goin' on five straight days.  Wuuut.

Oh jah?

I could be years-practiced in the art.

I could be an 80th level master in being up to no good.

Mmhmm.

We can only be what we are.

If I must be a bastard, I may as well be magnificent.

Of all the things for which I may thank God,
I choose perception.

Just had the most delicious realization —

I can run my hands all over the bathroom sink and not worry about cooties.
'Cause the only cooties crawlin' round up in there are mine.
And I trust my own microbes.
I realize the leap, trusting that my own microbes wouldn't grow or mutate into ones that would harm me whilst living out their lives in the bathroom sink.  But that's a trust I'm willing to extend.  It's the same I've extended to those I leave behind when I drink out of the milk carton.
Because if I must trust a microbe, certainly I should trust my own.

Quote of the Day:

"Being homeless is a full-time job."