Saturday, October 9
I have found a whole new love. A soulmate. Not sexually though. Because if it were sexual, I would have found Izzy Stradlin, or I like to make sweet hot kinky love to my guitar.

I started playing guitar again and I am trying to learn "Paint it Black." Keith Richards, I thank you for your inspirational heroin overdoses. All those summer months have gone to complete utter waste, when I should've been strumming like a mindless dumb shit wannabe on the pear shaped piece of japanese wood. If I had been practicing for all those months of sitting for 9 hours a day in front of the computer tweaking this piece of Gwar shit I call a journal, I probably would be able to play a song pretty fucking well by now.

Before, I couldn't fucking stand "Sweet Child o' Mine." Thanks to movies like Big Daddy and television programs and made-for-TV movies that featured the song whenever there's a father and child situation. The fucking song's not even about that crap. They kept putting it as the soundtrack to their shitty cinematic attempts at Oscar-winning and playing the chorus over and over and over, until Axl's screechy cat voice split my cranium in two, the edges sharp enough to pierce through all 17 layers of fat in his love handles. Thanks to Adam Sandler, I fucking hated the song for years, until I finally got a hold of the full version and listened to the rest of it enough to appreciate it and forget about the phony soccer dads on Viagra who wear black nylon gym pants that are too short and you see their mustard yellow knee socks to the park with their soccer families and soccer children who can't even kick a ball into their own father's nuts to watch him squeal like a sexually impotent boar.

I know I haven't been commenting as much on your journals lately, because I have been a conceited little fucker and for the little time that I had been spending during the hours after coming home from 8 hours of lower education and going on the computer and supposedly doing homework at the same time, have been working on only my shit and was either too lazy, or just honestly, really didn't care. Because some people just like to post boring shit like I do but the kind of boring shit like I do that makes you wanna go take a nice, long, liberating shit in a port-a-potty at Woodstock when you don't even have to take a shit at all. Remember I used to comment like crazy? Well, this bitch actually has OTHER THINGS TO DO for once. I can't believe I just said that. I have other things to do. That's like, never. Yeah, fuck you United States government, for sending me to school at 7:50 every morning for 8 hours of sleeping with my eyes open, added to the already 7 hours that I slept with my eyes closed on my metal spring mattress in my own cozy russian refugee camp.

And for being such an ass lately, including what I just said about some entries you may have written, am giving you a chance to diss me all you want. Make fun of me. About anything. Take something that I take dearly, to the bottom of my heart, and rip it to shreds, humiliating me until I have the will to track you down to wherever the fuck you set your ass down and scalp you with my favorite eating utensil that I use every day to eat cheesecake. Diss me all you want in a comment. I don't care what you say, even if I am an extremely sensitive person and I like to cry to myself every time I watch even the corniest romantic movie on TV. All of you, young and old, straight and gay, Gwar fan and Gwar hater, stander upper and sitter downer, make fun of Christina in a comment to this post.


Christina N. @ 8:08 PM