Hello melon ballers,
I’m coming to you live from my dining-bed-living room. All around me lies the evidence of carnage and devastation. The remains of many brave chocolate popsicles litter the quilted landscape. Bingo tickets have been scratched like a cheap paint job and tossed away in crumpled balls. Like a queen among the rubble a chub belled cat sighs disdainfully at the Dorito cheese goo that coats her furry hide. Yes, my cat is now nacho cheese flavoured.
Well, what happened was, I have the evening to MYSELF! So I went and filled it with popsicles and chips and gambling and internet boobs and what not. It’s a maelstrom of disreputable happenings. It’s really wild. I may watch a Kate Winslet movie later on even. WHY THE FUCK NOT!
Earlier I couldn’t decide whether I should try to sneak into the Grizzly Bear show across the road or bake a pie. Of course pie always wins out (less walking involved + more eating involved = win) but I have no flour so Im just laying around being a minimum wage sensualist indulging in my convenience store sins.
Also I can hear the people on their way to the Grizzly Bear show talking outside my window about granola, so I made the right choice.
This week has been mental man. My brain is numb, my feet are screaming, my back is cracky and I look like a fucking lobster faced goon. I mean, this is my face:
I don’t understand, these pictures are clearly not taken for halloween. Is this what poor people serve at dinner parties and pretend they are rich and eating fancy foods? There’s approximately 13981230912 pictures of babies in fucked up lobster costumes on the internet, what the hell is going on. I WANT ANSWERS!