Friday, February 25
I just read about all the VIP shit for the Velvet Revolver tour. They are no longer playing in small clubs and are now playing at big stadiums where you go home with a drippy red menstruating nose if you were cheap enough not to invest in the premium packages. The four-star one is $125 and the five-star one is $225 or something. Are you fucking shitting me? Too bad my birthday comes after the shows scheduled for the area and I can't ask for a premium package as my present. And I doubt anyone would take me, and that's possibly the only way I can go. The folks never let me do anything on my own. And being that my grades are absolute Gwar shit, my chances of going are even less.

You know what? Fuck you people who get to do everything you want. You and your fucking jobs and money your fucking cars and your fucking lots of clothes and your fucking parents who don't five a fuck about your academic incapacity. If I just buy a regular admission ticket, the experience is just as worth it as standing outside and listening through the walls with a glass, and later having your ear smashed in from all the vibrations. The only thing better about that is that you won't be fucking bothered by the people around you.

A lot of people say, "Oh well, at least I'll be in the same room as Slash and Duff." That's like saying you're on the same earth as Slash and Duff. It doesn't make a fucking difference. They're probably like two fucking states away from me or some shit, I should go cry. Boo hoo I'm five hundred miles away from Duff McKagan's penis.

My mother dragged me out of bed at 11:00 this morning saying that if I don't shovel the snow, I don't get to eat lunch. Going Alabama hickfuck on me, aren't you? The lunch wasn't even good anyway, it was leftovers from last night's dinner. Stupid bitch.

That was the first time I ever had to shovel snow too. I guess I am spoiled in one way or another. Actually, years before, she said that I wasn't yet big enough to do it. But as I got older and older I got dumber and dumber. I guess that's the reason she delayed it so much. She just thought that it would be smarter if I was just left to sleep the whole day through and not break a few shovels or scrape up the asphalt.

My left arm was so fucked up afterwards that when I tried to lift a glass of water to my mouth, it would voluntarily, slowly, fall back down to the table against my will. It was that useless.

I really hope to Jimmy Page that my Jack Daniel's shirt comes in the mail soon and didn't get lost or some shit. I would be furious. Same thing with the Victoria's Secret shirt. I would be furious too. They're the only things that I'm looking forward to right now.

I wonder how all of my friends are doing. No one has really contacted me lately. It's no surprise anyway. And I couldn't really give a fuck. I've got my crazy thoughts and Axl jokes to keep myself company. Just a phone call wouldn't hurt. I know hate telephones, but I don't hate my friends.

I really want to see Velvet Revolver before Scott Weiland fucking pulls a Nikki Sixx that fucking went too far.

It's funny how Van Halen has a song called "Spanish Fly" that has a fucking amazing acoustic guitar and that Homer Simpson sang a song with the same title.

Why does Motley Crue's "Same Ol' Situation" chorus sound so much like Poison? Fucking attrocious, I say. Fucking attrocious.


Christina N. @ 2:40 PM