Sunday, January 9
Kill me now, because I think I'm starting to really like a Poison song. That's right, you read it, "I Want Action." Now shove a fucking shattered beer bottle up my ass before I start thinking that Bret Michaels is hot and C.C. Deville is a better guitar player than Eddie Van Halen. Thanks a lot Beavis and Butt-Head, for exposing my fragile young mind to such horrid optical illusions.

While eating lunch just an hour and a half ago, my mom touched a zit on my face that she had just discovered is newly growing its pusful roots and static shocked my face. It hurt. It's winter, and she is quite known for always being shocked. Well shocking my face, especially on a zit, is not going to be any old lightning bolt.

I should stop writing. It's only 1:59 in the afternoon and it's my second entry today. Happy birthday Jimmy Page again.

My fucking liver or pancreas or appendix or whatever the fuck goes under my ribs hurts like hell. I don't know why. I surely don't want to pull a Duff.


Christina N. @ 1:55 PM