So tomorrow is my 29th birthday or, as my buddy Ty calls it, my "screaming into the blinding void of terror that is life" day. (It's also his birthday so I'm hoping he doesn't feel too bad about turning 40 or about me telling people how old he really is). Anyway, this blog is just to let everyone know that my brother and I are going out tonite to celebrate, an although we will most likey survive, this entry is just in case I don't wake up, or either of us are found behind a dumpster in the good area of town, bleeding from massive head wounds and missing our shoes.
Check back tomorrow to see if we make it.
fishbait
Friday, September 22, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Let Me Tell You About My Night.
Allo everyone, thank you for once again coming along with me as I sweat nonsense from every pore, all for your viewing and reading pleasure.
I must admit that when I dragged my sorry, hungover carcas from my sleep chamber sometime around the ungodly hour of 5pm, I had no idea what an eerie and twisted situation I would find myself entangled.
The evening started out ordinarily enough, I showed up late for work, I ate my dinner/breakfast, and after my habitual, digestive cigarrette, settled into my nightly routine of ignoring my guests and deciphering my daily crossword puzzle. Things were well, and aside from my chronically drunk co-workers, there was not a body to be found in the joint, that is until the birthday party arrived.
Like pedeophiles at a junior high dance, they came grinding and sacheing through the front door, demanding booze and flesh. Hair askew and legs akimbo, they took their seats shouting for shooters and requesting topless service, to which of course I was happy to oblige.
Pictures taken and my clothing reasembled, I proceeded to serve the copious amounts of intoxicant the table had so elequently requested. For a crew as loaded and rowdy as they seemed at first, they were great tippers, so I felt it nessessary, for the sake of my wallet, to keep a close eye on their drinks and attitude toward the staff and overall environment.
The bartender Paul, and I had been drinking double shots of Wild Turkey since the beginning of our shift and it was time for my hourly bathroom check,(that of course should be read as: I needed to piss) so off I went. I must say that I was quite surprised to find two of the partiers standing by the sinks in a bathroom with the prestigeous honour of being rated "worst on Vancouver Island", having a chat. Normally this wouldn't even induce an eyelash bat, but as one of the people was female, I was uncharacteristicly taken aback.
Out they went, "sorry"'s flying hither and tither, to regroup with the rest of the revellers on the patio. Thinking this to be very odd behaviour, a closer eye on this crew of miscreants should be kept, I decided. After reassuring myself that my pocket knife and wrap of piano wire were both in the pockets I normally reserved for them, I went back out to the smoking pit to reassert control over the situation.
Finding everyone on their best behaviour again, I returned inside to assist Paul in an unmerciful beating of a crack head who had wandered in moments earlier, swinging his arms like a boxing monk, silent and savagly, and had proceeded to knock an entire rack of highball glasses into our ice well. After severing the tendons, along with the veins in his wrist with my piano wire, we then heaved his body into the dumpster behind our quaint little tavern.
Back inside I discovered that the two party goers I had encountered in the bathroom, were once again missing. Straight to the bathroom was my route, luckily this time it was empty. Next course of action was to check the women's bathroom. What I discovered there has been burned, scarred into my memory so badly that no amount of liquer or illicit drug can cleanse the terrible scene.
There, in the stall farthest from the door, stood two pairs of bare legs, clothes strewn about the room with no regard for ponds of urine, vomit, or liquid feces. "Good lord, man!" I shouted. "What the hell would inspire you to ream your girlfriend is a place as festering as this?"
"It's her birthday" he slurred, removing her from him and stagering out of the stall to reclaim his pants from their make shift hanger, between security bars on the window. Trying vainly to button his fly, he looked to me for help.
"Not a chance, Fuck-o! I've no time for this." Gripping his lady friend by the ankles I started towards the front door.
"What the fuck?" asked Paul.
"She's too fucked to walk, figured I'd put her with the crack head." I said.
What a happy birthday that would make for her we thought, waking next to a deceased, diseased waste of life. Perhaps she'd think twice before coming to this end of town again.
Seeing this, the rest of the party ran for the safety of the street outside, waving frantically for any passing car to stop and help.
The only one left to deal with was the boyfriend. Grabbing the "ugly stick" from behind the bar, Paul leapt over the taps and connected with the back of both the drunken simian's legs, and after romoving his nipples with my knife, we threw his kicking and screeching, flabby ass to the curb.
Sometime around 4am, we finished cleaning the blood and drool out of our clothing, and sat ourselves down for a well deserved drink.
Alright, so maybe this isn't an entirely true story, but it is based in fact. I did wake up at 5pm, I did take the drink order from a birthday party w/out my shirt, a crack head did break a glass into our ice well, and two of the people from the birthday party were indeed caught enjoying each other in the bathroom. And as far as the rateing of "worst on Van Isle", go to www.urinal.net/cambie_nanaimo/ and see for yourself.
That's it for now,
fishbait
I must admit that when I dragged my sorry, hungover carcas from my sleep chamber sometime around the ungodly hour of 5pm, I had no idea what an eerie and twisted situation I would find myself entangled.
The evening started out ordinarily enough, I showed up late for work, I ate my dinner/breakfast, and after my habitual, digestive cigarrette, settled into my nightly routine of ignoring my guests and deciphering my daily crossword puzzle. Things were well, and aside from my chronically drunk co-workers, there was not a body to be found in the joint, that is until the birthday party arrived.
Like pedeophiles at a junior high dance, they came grinding and sacheing through the front door, demanding booze and flesh. Hair askew and legs akimbo, they took their seats shouting for shooters and requesting topless service, to which of course I was happy to oblige.
Pictures taken and my clothing reasembled, I proceeded to serve the copious amounts of intoxicant the table had so elequently requested. For a crew as loaded and rowdy as they seemed at first, they were great tippers, so I felt it nessessary, for the sake of my wallet, to keep a close eye on their drinks and attitude toward the staff and overall environment.
The bartender Paul, and I had been drinking double shots of Wild Turkey since the beginning of our shift and it was time for my hourly bathroom check,(that of course should be read as: I needed to piss) so off I went. I must say that I was quite surprised to find two of the partiers standing by the sinks in a bathroom with the prestigeous honour of being rated "worst on Vancouver Island", having a chat. Normally this wouldn't even induce an eyelash bat, but as one of the people was female, I was uncharacteristicly taken aback.
Out they went, "sorry"'s flying hither and tither, to regroup with the rest of the revellers on the patio. Thinking this to be very odd behaviour, a closer eye on this crew of miscreants should be kept, I decided. After reassuring myself that my pocket knife and wrap of piano wire were both in the pockets I normally reserved for them, I went back out to the smoking pit to reassert control over the situation.
Finding everyone on their best behaviour again, I returned inside to assist Paul in an unmerciful beating of a crack head who had wandered in moments earlier, swinging his arms like a boxing monk, silent and savagly, and had proceeded to knock an entire rack of highball glasses into our ice well. After severing the tendons, along with the veins in his wrist with my piano wire, we then heaved his body into the dumpster behind our quaint little tavern.
Back inside I discovered that the two party goers I had encountered in the bathroom, were once again missing. Straight to the bathroom was my route, luckily this time it was empty. Next course of action was to check the women's bathroom. What I discovered there has been burned, scarred into my memory so badly that no amount of liquer or illicit drug can cleanse the terrible scene.
There, in the stall farthest from the door, stood two pairs of bare legs, clothes strewn about the room with no regard for ponds of urine, vomit, or liquid feces. "Good lord, man!" I shouted. "What the hell would inspire you to ream your girlfriend is a place as festering as this?"
"It's her birthday" he slurred, removing her from him and stagering out of the stall to reclaim his pants from their make shift hanger, between security bars on the window. Trying vainly to button his fly, he looked to me for help.
"Not a chance, Fuck-o! I've no time for this." Gripping his lady friend by the ankles I started towards the front door.
"What the fuck?" asked Paul.
"She's too fucked to walk, figured I'd put her with the crack head." I said.
What a happy birthday that would make for her we thought, waking next to a deceased, diseased waste of life. Perhaps she'd think twice before coming to this end of town again.
Seeing this, the rest of the party ran for the safety of the street outside, waving frantically for any passing car to stop and help.
The only one left to deal with was the boyfriend. Grabbing the "ugly stick" from behind the bar, Paul leapt over the taps and connected with the back of both the drunken simian's legs, and after romoving his nipples with my knife, we threw his kicking and screeching, flabby ass to the curb.
Sometime around 4am, we finished cleaning the blood and drool out of our clothing, and sat ourselves down for a well deserved drink.
Alright, so maybe this isn't an entirely true story, but it is based in fact. I did wake up at 5pm, I did take the drink order from a birthday party w/out my shirt, a crack head did break a glass into our ice well, and two of the people from the birthday party were indeed caught enjoying each other in the bathroom. And as far as the rateing of "worst on Van Isle", go to www.urinal.net/cambie_nanaimo/ and see for yourself.
That's it for now,
fishbait
Friday, September 08, 2006
Toasted Peanut Butter Sandwichs
Two month check in:
I can't believe I've been away from Calgary for two months now. I was just talking with my brother and we were both sort of shocked when it was realized that I haven't gotten laid since being out here. It was decided that I need to find my mojo.
I checked behind the fridge, as that's usually where things go missing, but it wasn't there. Perhaps I dropped it while bar hopping one night, I thought, but after checking the lost and found of each of the bars I've been to, I came up empty handed.
I think the main reason is that I'm not really settled here. I mean I love it, but I sort of still feel like a tourist, and I think that comes out. It almost seems that I'm not comfortable in my own skin. Also, it's a lot different finding confidence w/out some sort of sythentic. I think that's what's holding me back the most. I know I used to be able to do it, it's not like I spent my whole life high, but as much as you need to learn to hide being high sometimes, you also need to hide being sober.
That may not make a lot of sense but all it means is that I have to fool myself into that same sort of security. I'm still learning how to be sober and my social skills aren't quite up to par yet, but they are getting better.
Or not, last night there was a woman at the Cambie who, friendly as she was, really got on my nerves. Maybe it was just my mood that night, but there's something about people that's been rubbing me the wrong way lately. My favorite thing is when people think that they're cheering me up when I'm not down. Ya know, bein' silly and demanding your attention when all you want to do is read the paper? Despite what they may be used to encountering, I'm not there seeking attention from the masses. I really just want to have a beer and read my paper. It's not a cry for help.
Anyway, I have to leave for work now so until next time,
fishbait
I can't believe I've been away from Calgary for two months now. I was just talking with my brother and we were both sort of shocked when it was realized that I haven't gotten laid since being out here. It was decided that I need to find my mojo.
I checked behind the fridge, as that's usually where things go missing, but it wasn't there. Perhaps I dropped it while bar hopping one night, I thought, but after checking the lost and found of each of the bars I've been to, I came up empty handed.
I think the main reason is that I'm not really settled here. I mean I love it, but I sort of still feel like a tourist, and I think that comes out. It almost seems that I'm not comfortable in my own skin. Also, it's a lot different finding confidence w/out some sort of sythentic. I think that's what's holding me back the most. I know I used to be able to do it, it's not like I spent my whole life high, but as much as you need to learn to hide being high sometimes, you also need to hide being sober.
That may not make a lot of sense but all it means is that I have to fool myself into that same sort of security. I'm still learning how to be sober and my social skills aren't quite up to par yet, but they are getting better.
Or not, last night there was a woman at the Cambie who, friendly as she was, really got on my nerves. Maybe it was just my mood that night, but there's something about people that's been rubbing me the wrong way lately. My favorite thing is when people think that they're cheering me up when I'm not down. Ya know, bein' silly and demanding your attention when all you want to do is read the paper? Despite what they may be used to encountering, I'm not there seeking attention from the masses. I really just want to have a beer and read my paper. It's not a cry for help.
Anyway, I have to leave for work now so until next time,
fishbait
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Hmmmm Work.
Written at home:
Ya know, at one point, I thought about making this blog a bitch fest about everything that's an outside influence on me. That is until I realized, there aren't any. All negativity comes from w/in me and that's where I have to start.
Ok, great. Breakthrough. So what?
So what indeed.
Well, how about this: I used to get upset when I found out that people don't like me.
Now, I'm learning to not care, not only about whether or not they like me, but about them. I've decided to distance myself from the human race.
Fuck 'em.
Don't like me. I don't want you to. In fact, I may even make it my duty to have you completely fucking loath me.
Written at work:
Having said all that, I'm feeling an odd sort of peace. I don't want to fool myself into thinking it's anything but a premature spiritual ejaculation, but it's comforting anyway, so I'll take it for what it's worth.
The chatterings of the madmen recede.
Even my own bad thoughts hide from the light toward which I run.
They aren't gone, but distant, softer.
And the less I try, the easier things seem to be.
Fuck it, I'm drunk. I was going to make this a happy entry, but in order to keep myself honest, I need to faithfully reproduce each and every word of this excretion.
Don't get me wrong, I'm still happy......
Written moments ago:
I don't really remember much of what happened after that, I'm just happy I didn't lose the paper it was written on. I did forget it at work however. I'm lucky enough to have people around that don't throw things out.
Fishbait
Ya know, at one point, I thought about making this blog a bitch fest about everything that's an outside influence on me. That is until I realized, there aren't any. All negativity comes from w/in me and that's where I have to start.
Ok, great. Breakthrough. So what?
So what indeed.
Well, how about this: I used to get upset when I found out that people don't like me.
Now, I'm learning to not care, not only about whether or not they like me, but about them. I've decided to distance myself from the human race.
Fuck 'em.
Don't like me. I don't want you to. In fact, I may even make it my duty to have you completely fucking loath me.
Written at work:
Having said all that, I'm feeling an odd sort of peace. I don't want to fool myself into thinking it's anything but a premature spiritual ejaculation, but it's comforting anyway, so I'll take it for what it's worth.
The chatterings of the madmen recede.
Even my own bad thoughts hide from the light toward which I run.
They aren't gone, but distant, softer.
And the less I try, the easier things seem to be.
Fuck it, I'm drunk. I was going to make this a happy entry, but in order to keep myself honest, I need to faithfully reproduce each and every word of this excretion.
Don't get me wrong, I'm still happy......
Written moments ago:
I don't really remember much of what happened after that, I'm just happy I didn't lose the paper it was written on. I did forget it at work however. I'm lucky enough to have people around that don't throw things out.
Fishbait
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Feeling Cranky
My mood is beyond foul today. I want to kick cute, fluffy kittens all the way to the chinese restaurant half a mile down the road, and where do I have the displeasure to spend my afternoon? Surounded by morons and several sharp knives. Too bad really, that none of said morons breached the kitchen line. It would have been more than mildly satisfying to leave one of those blades buried to the hilt in the rib cage of one of our "loved and respected" regulars.
The world does not contain enough of the sweet ambrosia, that I know as "nicotine", to give me a "rainbows and pots o' gold" outlook on life today.
I offer a prayer: O sweet lord, free me from the idiocy of the masses. Turn the clock back and let their drunken whore mothers stand up, after being fucked behind a cardboard bin, to let the load of whiskey laden sperm run down lesion pocked thighs instead of find seed.
I read that to a friend of mine earlier. After listening to him snort and spill coffee on his lap, I answered his question in the negative. He didn't believe me, but it's true; I'm not back on drugs. Scary, huh? This is part of my mind all of the time. I'd like to blame it on the music I listen to, but I can't. I've been listening to very melodic, and lyricly beautiful music. I'm reading books that are challenging and classical in nature. I'm spending my time with itelligent, witty people. When I really think about it, I think what it comes down to, is that I'm just an asshole sometimes.
And I'm not going to apologize for that.
Fishbait
The world does not contain enough of the sweet ambrosia, that I know as "nicotine", to give me a "rainbows and pots o' gold" outlook on life today.
I offer a prayer: O sweet lord, free me from the idiocy of the masses. Turn the clock back and let their drunken whore mothers stand up, after being fucked behind a cardboard bin, to let the load of whiskey laden sperm run down lesion pocked thighs instead of find seed.
I read that to a friend of mine earlier. After listening to him snort and spill coffee on his lap, I answered his question in the negative. He didn't believe me, but it's true; I'm not back on drugs. Scary, huh? This is part of my mind all of the time. I'd like to blame it on the music I listen to, but I can't. I've been listening to very melodic, and lyricly beautiful music. I'm reading books that are challenging and classical in nature. I'm spending my time with itelligent, witty people. When I really think about it, I think what it comes down to, is that I'm just an asshole sometimes.
And I'm not going to apologize for that.
Fishbait
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Experiment in Madness
I've stopped taking their medications. You know the ones. Those giant, powdery horse pills that turn your stool into a thick, coffee coloured paste. But finally, the side effects, like sleep for instance, are begining to wear off.
A most distracting thing, that sleep. All those dreams, giving face to the voices. Dark hallways. Shadow figures breaking my fingers. A woman in the distance, eyes covered, following but never catching me. I deal with most of it just fine, but those teeth. Those goddamned teeth. Just the ends, scratching against my neck, past my nipple. Razor sharp and six inches long, it sometimes seems almost erotic. As I've never wittnessed any jaw or mouth to contain them though, that illusion is quickly splintered. Jump awake, sweats, breath lost to the shock. Yes, I'm most happy to be rid of sleep.
I don't need food anymore either. I know what's being done to it. Slowly poisoning my already fragile system. Drugs before the food. After the food. In the food. They won't get me that way. I just had to eliminate the source. Finding out how they were getting into the cans and jars, supposedly sealed for protection was the hard part, but that doesn't matter anymore. Besides, they have their ways, and they don't think I'm paying attention. Oh, but I am. That's why the pills you see, they want me to sleep and not notice what's going on.
They even tried to drive me mad. I can't tell you how they did it, but I came home and my key didn't work. Well, that certainly wouldn't do. So I snuck into the building when a delivery driver was let up. I would have buzzed myself, but I wasn't inside to answer the call you see. When I tried my apartment door, a woman I've never seen before answered, kind of. The chain was on. But I'm crafty you see, I pretended to leave. Then, after breaking into the janitor's room, I showered and changed into his coveralls. Not a bad fit really. Little tight in the crotch, but what's to be done? The best find down there was a pair of bolt cutters lying behind the furnace.
I went back upstairs to my apartment and knocked again, keeping my face hidden by the brim of the cap I found sitting beside the bolt cutters. This time, when the door began to open, I quickly used the cutters on the chain. I must admit, I didn't expect two different screams; the woman's and the baby's in the next room.
I started screaching at her: "What are you doing in my home, you fucking bitch? Who let you in here? Who changed the lock?"
She was yelling back at me in what must have been Atlantian, so I made a connection between her temple and the corner of an end table. I almost feel bad for that, that table must have been sixty years old. Then I was off to silence the brat. I'll spare you the details, but it's truly amazing what you can do with a utility knife and some electrical tape. Sufice to say, it's going to be a very long time before that little shit makes any kind of noise. That is unless I left the window open. Did I leave the window open? Too late now, doesn't matter.
Going back into the living room, I grabbed the woman by the hair and hauled her gravitationaly challenged body into the kitchen. I'm not trying to imply that she was fat, just that dead weight is a bitch to move, but move the bitch I did, and after lifting her into a chair, I secured her to it.
I wanted to ask more questions, but there were no answers, hell, there wasn't even a pulse. Too bad really, I was quite looking forward to showing her the tongue of her son. I had it in my pocket you see. Sorry, the janitor's pocket.
Anyway, thinking that I may have made too much noise, I figured I should work fast. What would the police think, I wonder, if they found me in my apartment surrounded by someone else's furniture, a dead woman in my bath tub (shaved from head to groin) and a mobile in the nursery made out of a toddler?
I still wonder what they thought, but none of them will tell me, they just force me to take the pills they bring.
Fishbait
A most distracting thing, that sleep. All those dreams, giving face to the voices. Dark hallways. Shadow figures breaking my fingers. A woman in the distance, eyes covered, following but never catching me. I deal with most of it just fine, but those teeth. Those goddamned teeth. Just the ends, scratching against my neck, past my nipple. Razor sharp and six inches long, it sometimes seems almost erotic. As I've never wittnessed any jaw or mouth to contain them though, that illusion is quickly splintered. Jump awake, sweats, breath lost to the shock. Yes, I'm most happy to be rid of sleep.
I don't need food anymore either. I know what's being done to it. Slowly poisoning my already fragile system. Drugs before the food. After the food. In the food. They won't get me that way. I just had to eliminate the source. Finding out how they were getting into the cans and jars, supposedly sealed for protection was the hard part, but that doesn't matter anymore. Besides, they have their ways, and they don't think I'm paying attention. Oh, but I am. That's why the pills you see, they want me to sleep and not notice what's going on.
They even tried to drive me mad. I can't tell you how they did it, but I came home and my key didn't work. Well, that certainly wouldn't do. So I snuck into the building when a delivery driver was let up. I would have buzzed myself, but I wasn't inside to answer the call you see. When I tried my apartment door, a woman I've never seen before answered, kind of. The chain was on. But I'm crafty you see, I pretended to leave. Then, after breaking into the janitor's room, I showered and changed into his coveralls. Not a bad fit really. Little tight in the crotch, but what's to be done? The best find down there was a pair of bolt cutters lying behind the furnace.
I went back upstairs to my apartment and knocked again, keeping my face hidden by the brim of the cap I found sitting beside the bolt cutters. This time, when the door began to open, I quickly used the cutters on the chain. I must admit, I didn't expect two different screams; the woman's and the baby's in the next room.
I started screaching at her: "What are you doing in my home, you fucking bitch? Who let you in here? Who changed the lock?"
She was yelling back at me in what must have been Atlantian, so I made a connection between her temple and the corner of an end table. I almost feel bad for that, that table must have been sixty years old. Then I was off to silence the brat. I'll spare you the details, but it's truly amazing what you can do with a utility knife and some electrical tape. Sufice to say, it's going to be a very long time before that little shit makes any kind of noise. That is unless I left the window open. Did I leave the window open? Too late now, doesn't matter.
Going back into the living room, I grabbed the woman by the hair and hauled her gravitationaly challenged body into the kitchen. I'm not trying to imply that she was fat, just that dead weight is a bitch to move, but move the bitch I did, and after lifting her into a chair, I secured her to it.
I wanted to ask more questions, but there were no answers, hell, there wasn't even a pulse. Too bad really, I was quite looking forward to showing her the tongue of her son. I had it in my pocket you see. Sorry, the janitor's pocket.
Anyway, thinking that I may have made too much noise, I figured I should work fast. What would the police think, I wonder, if they found me in my apartment surrounded by someone else's furniture, a dead woman in my bath tub (shaved from head to groin) and a mobile in the nursery made out of a toddler?
I still wonder what they thought, but none of them will tell me, they just force me to take the pills they bring.
Fishbait
Friday, September 01, 2006
An Open Letter
Hey mang, thanks for getting back to me.
I must say that's quite the reaction. To be honest, I wrote that last entry in the bar last night and it took about two mins. It really wasn't intended as "sympathy inducing prose", though I suppose it could be seen that was, I just thought it was something to use in my blog. I'd like to think that people read these, but I'm aware that there are other things to do. But whether or not people read them has never really been the point. This is a pergutory for all of my thoughts, good and bad, but I will admit that getting any response does carry a certain sense of validation with it.
That being said, my move to the coast has put me in a pretty good head space. There's a sense of freedom here that I was missing in Calgary, it's just a slower pace. Now I'm not going to say that I'm completly reformed, lets be real, but if you look at the dates of the entries, I think, for the most part, they do get lighter in mood. And though it may seem that I'm too focused on addiction, to a degree I have to be. If I let my guard down, I might fall, and that's not something that I can afford to do.
Most of what's written here, it should be said, is with tongue planted firmly in cheek. (hopfully a 19 yr old blonde's ass cheek, but cheek nonetheless.)
I'm sorry if anyone has been taking this stuff as a real representation of my mind, it's just me clearing some of the cobwebs to make room for the more important things that I know I deserve.
Anyhow, that's all for now. Thanks to all for your prayers and feedback. May you all find happiness in the life giving light that radiates from all hearts.
Fishbait.
I must say that's quite the reaction. To be honest, I wrote that last entry in the bar last night and it took about two mins. It really wasn't intended as "sympathy inducing prose", though I suppose it could be seen that was, I just thought it was something to use in my blog. I'd like to think that people read these, but I'm aware that there are other things to do. But whether or not people read them has never really been the point. This is a pergutory for all of my thoughts, good and bad, but I will admit that getting any response does carry a certain sense of validation with it.
That being said, my move to the coast has put me in a pretty good head space. There's a sense of freedom here that I was missing in Calgary, it's just a slower pace. Now I'm not going to say that I'm completly reformed, lets be real, but if you look at the dates of the entries, I think, for the most part, they do get lighter in mood. And though it may seem that I'm too focused on addiction, to a degree I have to be. If I let my guard down, I might fall, and that's not something that I can afford to do.
Most of what's written here, it should be said, is with tongue planted firmly in cheek. (hopfully a 19 yr old blonde's ass cheek, but cheek nonetheless.)
I'm sorry if anyone has been taking this stuff as a real representation of my mind, it's just me clearing some of the cobwebs to make room for the more important things that I know I deserve.
Anyhow, that's all for now. Thanks to all for your prayers and feedback. May you all find happiness in the life giving light that radiates from all hearts.
Fishbait.
Three Weeks 'Till 29
Find a/any beast to eat my pain.
I want to scream tears from my testicles.
End this fear of frustration.
let me go, and give me my wings
fishbait
I want to scream tears from my testicles.
End this fear of frustration.
let me go, and give me my wings
fishbait
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