Saturday, September 4
"That nice round butt, they're like apples."

Gotta love Carson. It feels real goddarn fabolicious to watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy after weeks of being way too drab flab to watch the Fab 5.

Days have been going fast. Except for the times when the plastic on the chair hits a sensitive spot on my ass and it really starts to ache while I listen to people talk about their supposed "amazingness" and how proud they are of their sexual roundabouts, and how much they love the teacher and the class while they dance in the aisle, showing off their $5 pair of jeans with a wash the color of used toilet paper that I made after eating Quaker Oatmeal and bananas.

That last thing was hypothetical.

The faster these days go, the better. I will soon find out how it feels like to die, and if you float up to heaven like an LSD trip or whether you wear black boots and take that Macy's escalator to hell. The plus side about the escalator is, you'll get to shove tropical prickly fruits up Hitler's ass while laughing at his hairy legs and plaid skirts.

For some reason I've been contemplating on how others think of my fashion style. I don't really have a particular one, so don't try to fucking stamp me with your clique labels. Labels only go on complaint letters to the PTA and censorship groups. Stamps go on regular letters to your long lost love that you lost in a wishing well. I know it's very shallow to worry about how others think of you, it's just that I'm curious if I saw from some other asshole's point of view and what they would think of a useless piece of shit such as I. Sure, I could hire a stalker to videotape me all the time and watch it later, but that's just plain creepy. Because I just hired a stalker.

Yeah, enough of rambling. We'll leave that up to Robert Plant to sing "Ramble On."


Christina N. @ 8:45 PM