Soon I'll be getting my camera. Begin the festivities!

I’m wondering, do rappers write their lyrics on a laptop, or by hand on envelopes, ala 8-Mile?
So far, the two uni-verse (heh), chorus-less rap songs I’ve written, have been by hand, in sharp black ink from a felt tip pen, in the saddest excuse for an educated adult’s penmanship possible. If you are a/know any rappers, please enlighten me.
Well, one thought leads to another, as thoughts are wont to do, and now I’m sitting here, wondering if all song writers write their lyrics on their laptops. P.s. or desk tops, I’m not one to discriminate. Either way, if it is true that most do, or even some, I feel, for no logical reason, that it takes away some of the romanticism of the musical process.
But I’m a hypocrite, since, although I’m not writing lyrics at present, I am writing something on my laptop.

Topic change.

How am I going to go to work tonight? I am on the verge of suicide (joking, but seriously) and I did 100 lunges and this must be PMS because right now I’m not feeling motivated by either England or a small Peruvian man in a colorful woven poncho, what is wrong with me?
I like to write about completely esoteric things. Things which only I, and a maximum of one other person can understand.

(Completely esoteric paragraph removed for content. Not quite esoteric enough.)

Why do I need a Snicker’s so severely at this moment? I mean, I would probably kill you for one. But then I get to thinking about my 100 lunges and the futility of all that suffering if I succumb to the Snicker’s siren. Fuck you and your candy bar! I’ll kill you for tempting me. You want me to get fat!

Have I mentioned today that I love corn tortillas? It has been proven scientifically * that if you prefer flour tortillas to corn, you will burn in hell eternally.
*See July 1998 issue of Scientific Mexican-Catholic

Jesus (Hey Zeus) Christos, I am Filarious. Time to treat myself with another tortilla of the corn variety. Maybe I’ll throw in a little partially hydrogenated artery clogging butter substitute and some texturally pleasing heart of iceberg lettuce (I can see James cringing now) for posterity.

I’ve discovered that I can effectively stave off my tendencies toward self annihilation by writing constantly. And when I say constantly, I mean with breaks for corn tortilla eating, of course.
If you have a vagina and functioning ovaries, you know what I mean.
And when I say you know what I mean, I’m referring to self/other than self destructive inclinations. Like every thought is wretched and leads to another thought, at least equally as wretched, and they all connect together like a web with a giant frothing demon spider sitting smumpously in the center, or the circle of life from the Lion King, only really extremely sucky. Also, you want everyone to die. And you want Snicker’s. And, oddly enough, some cock, really, really, really friggin’ badly.

So this is my present state, and I’m supposed to go and make $300 tonight. I can do it. I’m a big brave dog.
If I make $300 tonight, then I’ll have $500 for England, and if my calculations are accurate, that’s roughly ¼ of what I need.

You couldn’t be a better playa than me, even if you fucked everyday of the week.
Holla!
Suddenly I’m feeling inspired. Like, ‘yeah, hello, I am a playa, and a skilled pimp to boot. Life is better than it was 1 minute ago.’

Also, I’ve quit my job at Embassy Suites. They don’t know it yet, but they will when I don’t show up ever again. The only thing I worry about is how I’m going to get my phat paycheck (I’m only half joking) and retain an iota of my dignity. Fucking hell, I should have left that note yesterday.
The thing about real jobs that I just can’t manage to wrap my superior and quite capable mind around is the whole giving a fuck thing. People there actually give a fuck about whether the salt and pepper shakers were collected from the tables the night before, or if you’re wearing 5 non-functioning wrist watches. They care enough to work 1 million (70) hours a week. Okay people, it’s a hotel, it doesn’t fucking matter, why don’t you go and do some soul searching and find something real to do with your life, instead of worrying whether I’m delivering food to a table in the manner you prefer. Go on a spirit vision quest or save some leatherback turtles for fucks sake. No body should care about what some sauced up douche bag business travelers think about their place settings, or whether there are 30 sets of rolled silverware at any given time.
Oh my god I think the mind numbing ‘dumb’ infection I got from that job is actually starting to clear up.
Writing, you are my penicillin and my probiotic.