I have intentions today of extracting the diahorrea from my cranium and smearing it around on this vitrual sheet of crispy white paper, with a stick, or a log of harder shit, and I will hand it into your kindergarden teacher, and it will be art. You love it.
I get a gold star.
Speaking of shit, you know how some times after you take a really humassive shit, you feel like you've been anally raped, but from the inside? Well, after last night's, Candice has some how gone from delightfully tipsy, to violent heaving, of both the wet and dry varieties, into Cuba Libres toilet along with her vomit streaked hair debacle, that's sort of how my throat feels. Like it was violated, lubelessly, by a huge phallic object. But hey, maybe it was. Seeing as how I can't remember much beyond, "Hey Lins, let's go to the bathroom, " I'd say it's quite possible that I forceably, and finally, learned to deep throat, as a group of 6 or more random, viral menengitus hosting blokes gang banged my throat. I will be dead in 4 hours.
As my last literary testament to the world, in summation of my life, which absolutely teems with platinum accomplishments, to get down to brass tacks, and thick red wine reductions, I'd like to say, "I don't know how bulemics do it."
So, today I am grouchy and am compelled to be productive by making t-shirts for my new t-shirt making company 'Babies with Rabies, Inc.' which is soooo about to exFUCKINGplode, p.s. that awesome Thai vagrant dog inspired company name is so copyrighted, so don't even think about pilferring it, you poon. My posse should be here before too long, and then it's off to Hobby Lobby for supplies.
I am hungry.
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