Tuesday, August 31
New layout here. I was tired of calling myself a motherfucker every time I opened up my own journal. This one's simple. But it's Scott Weiland, so it's hot. If you haven't noticed, all my layouts are practically the same. Bada bing, bada boom, change this, new background picture, move this, move that, voila! New layout.

I've been posting nothing but short shitful entries and even wasting more of whoever's reading this's time with pointless pictures. Pointless just like myself. A long awaited lengthy wordful entry is due. Well, here you go, fuckheads.

Haha, Riki Rachtman's on When The Partridge Family Ruled the World. He's cool, so he can do whatever the fuck he wants, even be on a Macdonald's commercial imitating Justin Timberlake, "I'm lovin' it!" David Cassidy was hot. I don't care what you say. I'd tap that ass if I could. For some reason every time I hear "Partridge Family," I think of Pepperidge Farm bread. They both go hand in hand.

I think I love you! So what am I so afraid of?

Sorry for that brief break-into-song moment, but I seriously would dance around and clap my hands in flower butt-patched brown bellbottoms if I had them. And a Partridge Family vinyl album playing in a tweed encased record player. That's right, I'd look like the long lost foreign Brady Bunch member.

I'm hooked on "Mr. Brownstone." It's such a catchy song.

Last night at around 1 or 2 in the morning I was watching The Best: Top 10 Creepiest Destinations. Scary shit, man. Yeah, I'm a fucking chicken. Even a canary that shits on pages of Rolling Stone covering the bottom of its cage is braver than I am. But out of stupid fucktarded curiosity I kept watching it anyway. #1 had these freaky photos of a dead man sitting on a sofa with his head bashed in about 9 or 10 times with a pick axe. Thank goodness it wasn't in color, for I would've jumped out of bed like a little biatcha and knocked on my parents' door crying like a 3 year old twice their size. That is not a good sight.

Then again, I don't want to knock on their door in the middle of the night.

No, I will not get my head out of the gutter.

It's water, add shampoo and I can wash my hair.

Today my mom made me clean my sneakers with rubbing alcohol for Thursday. I used to get a new pair every year, but since my feet have stopped growing I guess that tradition's over with. The alcohol for some reason smelled good to me, but I forced myself from drinking it. I wouldn't want my insides to burn like acid. My death wish is 30. I'll have more time to plan things until then.

Anyway, after that I had to lace them. The fancy way. Not the ugly ass criss-cross way. It took me a half hour or 45 minutes trying to find out how, and I still didn't get it. I am that fucked up in the cranium, my friend. Don't ever ask me to help you with anything that involves problem solving. My ass got seriously numb from sitting on the fireplace, but I kept trying anyway. Then my mom came along and after two tries in less than 4 minutes, she got one shoe. Then I had to copy the way she did it with the other shoe. Jeez. I bet a weiner dog on heroin has a bigger brain capacity than I do.

Been working on a Led Zeppelin website for a while. Only got the entry page finished. No, I will not put a fucking link to it. And I don't feel like working on it any longer for the meanwhile.

Jimmy, I have failed you, my dear.


Christina N. @ 9:53 PM