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Talking a little crazy here.

I sometimes have a hard time coming up with an idea for a blog post.

After writing 500+ of these in the last 3 years, everything has kind of been done.

So sometimes, I just look for a hook, something that stirs my imagination when I hear/see it, and your imagination when you read it.

The post you are reading, I am writing the day before its due.

I got nothing.

Or, at least, I had nothing.

But as I was crossing the street to head into the Coffee Bean, 2 homeless people began loudly arguing on the corner.

And the hook fell, like manna from heaven.

Out of the mouth of babes, or in this case, a 400lbs homeless woman.

“YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!”

I found myself repeating that phrase as I waited in line to get my caffeine fix.

And I came to a conclusion.

I don’t know her life.

However, I could probably make some pretty accurate guesses. (And I am ridiculously accurate when I am just guessing.

1. Odds are, we are not dealing with a graduate from a master’s degree program.

2. Perhaps the exact mix of the cocktail is questionable, but I am willing to go out on a limb here and say that perhaps drugs played a big role. (I have a whole slew of friends that will piss and moan and make all sorts of claims about the harmlessness of drugs. Sorry, my blog, my rules, and you get to gag on my opinion like a first timer in the big house.)

3. Whatever happened to old school crazy? Everyone wants to pony up excuses, well crazy is making a comeback. Whether its naturally occurring or chemically induced, there does come a level of fucked up that you just don’t come back from.

I can almost see the excuse fanatics lining up on this one.

“Judge not lest ye be judged.” Don’t go biblical with me, you’ll lose. That passage was not a biblical get out of jail free card. Its meaning was don’t judge cheaply or with bias, or you’ll be judged that way. Fine, use my own measuring stick against me and see how unsatisfying it is.

“Its not her fault, society/Dems/GOP/whoever is to blame.” No, they’re not. Ultimately, fault lies with her. Some situations have you seriously behind the 8-ball, but that is where the tenacity of the human spirit comes in.

“You don’t know what an addiction is like.” Yeah, I do.

“You are a racist/bigot/misogynist/cat-hater.” Entirely possible. Bias, preference and dislike are human traits. There are exceptions to every rules and there are examples that prove the rule. Case by case is how I take it. I have yet to meet anyone on this planet that loved everyone with the exception of the soon to be sainted Mother Theresa. (Rumor had it she hated the Italians.)

In the end, the secret to getting the crazy lady calmed down and away from flowing traffic was to buy her a cranberry orange scone.

Even crazy loves a scone.

 
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Posted by on October 17, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Dickens, motherfucker.

A tale of two cities.
To paraphrase Dickens, it was the worst of times, it was even more worst of times.

City #1 is in Torrance, CA.

I make no claims of being a saint.
But evil lurks in the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
And, as it always does, it is in the form of a woman.
I will get some hate email for that line, but its true.
Women are the root of all evil, its a scientific fact.
Plus I read it on the internet.
The localized evil in the Coffee Bean has taken the form of a late teens girl named Sarah.
Sarah is special.
Not as in the mentally handicapped form of special, I mean self-inflicted special.
You can tell in the way Sarah drove up in the parking lot and took up two spaces.
The way she sauntered across the parking lot like her life depended on being the hottest chick alive.
Swag wise, if she were a dude, her dick would be hanging out.
At the front door, she stopped, and waited for a guy that was still 10 feet away to open the door for her.
She walked by the pastry case and eyed the goods.
Her order, when it came, was done while not looking who she was talking to.
One of those personalities that you hate instinctively.
Not evil at this point, just annoying.
And then her coffee came, and the evil began.
“What the hell is this?”
Turns out her latte was off.
Her next statement was double the volume.
“How hard is your fucking job?”
It went on with Sarah running at the mouth and embarrassing both herself and everyone that had to hear that shit spewing out of her festering gob.
This is why people’s food gets fucked with.
Sarah is the epitome of arrogant entitlement in this world, you can’t help but hate her.
And her parents.
I blame them.
Shitty kids come from shitty parents, its an old story.
And one that only gets worse every time you hear it.

City #2

Hawthorne California.
I try not to screw with people who could spit in my food.
Call it a personal thing.
And Papa John’s Pizza is the last place on earth I would screw with.
Because where they make their pizza’s, I cannot see.
That means if I am an ass, my pepparoni and sausage is getting either teabagged or an extra shot of DNA.
And nobody wants that, especially not me. (I mean the cold sore on the pizza prep guy’s lip LOOKS like its clearing up.)
But things are not looking good.
There are three people ahead of me.
The first two are given partial refunds and free chicken wings, mainly because it is taking so long.
The guy who ordered just before I arrived is losing his mind.
They end up giving him an entire pizza for his trouble.
And then it was my turn.
I ordered online, I waited 20 minutes before I came in.
They checked my id, assured me that the pizza would be ready soon.
20 minutes later, I asked and the guy checked, any minute now.
This is when the guy ahead of me got the free pizza and left.
And it was mine,.
Had to have been.
So, 45 minutes after I entered the front door, the Gump-like cashier finally fessed up that the pizza was either given away or not made.
Would I like a refund?
I WANT MY FUCKING PIZZA!
I told him to make it, and send out the manager.
In the mean time, I stood on my tiptoes to watch the guy make my pizza.
If he spit on it, he would have had to have done it when he put it in the oven.
And that is when the 12 year-old with the manager name tag came out.
He barely spoke english, the cashier spoke no spanish.
The pizza prep guy had to stop what he was doing to come over and interpret.
I am beginning to see the problem.
I told the guy that I had ordered 80 minutes ago, been in the building for an hour, and been assured by Gump 3 times that my pizza would be “Up soon”.
The pizza was cooking, and I would be taking it with me.
He would also be refunding me what I paid.
Then, he would be jotting down his name, and the name and phone # of the regional manager.
I am beyond dick at this point.
I don’t yell, but I realize that I am talking lower and over enunciating each word.
Translation: Pissed off.
This is why I will fight tooth and nail to keep $15 an hour minimum wage from happening. The job and the attitude are just not worth it.
You want to make more money? Work your ass off and get some skills and a raise.
And if you have no skills and are trying to raise a family on minimum wage? Shame on you. You are a brand of stupid that $15 is not going to fix.
And the pizza sucked too.
 
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Posted by on October 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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My whore complex.

There is something horrific about a woman in her 70’s that likes to chase men half her age.

For the record, I am not a whore.

But, this is what happened.

I was driving a long distance thing recently.

4-5 hours in a crappy rental car is enough to make anyone a little punchy.

I can drive that far only if I have adequate amounts of caffeine.

Which explains why I am in a Starbucks in a major tourist city.

And that was when I met Betty.

Betty is 70 years old.

I know this because Betty told me.

Would you like to know what else Betty told me in the span of 3.5 minutes in line?

1. Betty’s husband, Herman, sleeps 12 hours a day and has not had sex with her for over 25 years.

2. Betty loves men in their 40’s. (This was said after she asked me my age.)

3. Betty has the cutest condo, just down the street, and I should come see it.

And then she bought me Coffee and a scone.

Let me paint you a picture.

The grand mother of ancient whores is prowling tourist spots and attempting to buy souls for coffee and shitty English pastry.

And the worst part is, she is cheap and has low standards.

You might think I am smacking myself here, I’m really not.

I am a realist.

I am five feet nothing with a gut, a bad attitude and tend to scowl when thinking about things.

This is not the usual demographic of a gigolo.

I have had friends over the years that were the type of good-looking that men, women, and couples would hit on them.

I am not that guy, and I came to peace with that long ago.

There is a solid reason I developed this vengeful nasty attitude.

But, this is not about me, this is about Betty.

Betty is a realist too.

Betty is not searching for Mr. Right.

Betty is looking for Mr. Right Now.

Someone who would be more than willing to drop whatever they were going to do on a Tuesday at 11am at a tourist stop, and give up the goods back at her retiree, ben gay smelling condo, all for the price of a coffee and pastry.

I should be insulted, but I find the whole thing kind of desperately charming.

Betty is not from a generation that does this.

So my mind immediately goes to what road led Betty here.

She let me quiz her for the better part of 10 minutes before she finally figured out I was not a team player and just turned and walked off, getting back into line behind a mid thirties redneck wearing an Earnhardt tee shirt.

I watched the whole thing unfold as I ate my cranberry-orange scone.

Jethro, for lack of a better name, listened as Betty laid it all out to him. He then got his coffee, took a bite of the cookie she bought him, and headed out the door with a delighted Betty.

You have to wonder how it all turned out.

Did she enjoy herself? Probably. I mean this is evidently her whole thing. God knows how many times a day Betty is making the Starbucks run.

Did he enjoy himself? Probably. Women that old usually know their game well. Also, it may have been quite a while since Jethro got anything other than chafing marks from his right hand. Its called lotion people. Look into it.

Did Herman wake up and realize his wife is banging countless strangers in the guest bedroom? For all we know, Herman is dead and his memory is now being served up as part of Betty’s “Mercy fuck” pitch

Did I miss out? Probably not. I am in my own head often enough to know that this twisted little scenario is tailor made for nightmares and indigestion and being even more of a disappointment in the sack.

So, all in all, Betty actually gave me a better gift than some wrinkled ass and crying in the shower.

A somewhat lurid blog, which I always love, and an interesting half hour during a boring drive.

Plus, the coffee was good. (And I do enjoy a good scone.)

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Welcome to Thunderdome, bitch.

I never put much stock in the idea that money can’t buy happiness.

But it doesn’t seem to suck, either.

Case in point, the guy in the Mercedes S-class that just gave the homeless guy in front of the Starbucks a scone and a couple of ones.

I described this scenario to an acquaintance  to get their feedback.

“With the obvious wealth he had, he could have given more.”

Which I found to be an interesting statement.

I quizzed the shit out of this individual, pretty rudely, and found out the following:

1. The person I was talking to had not given any money to a homeless person in the last year.

2. They prefer to “Legitimate charities”. However, they had not given to charity in over a year.

3. They avoid homeless people because they are disgusting losers.

I decided that since we were both being so honest, I would give my honest opinion of their statement.

1. You judgmental, selfish fuck.

2. Why do you care what they do?

3. You are a bad person with the soul of a serial animal rapist.

Consequently, they are not talking to me now.

If you don’t want to hear it, don’t invite me to coffee.

I make no apologies over the fact that your soul is fucked up and dead and everyone else you talk to overlooks it and sugar coats it.

Should those that have help out? Sure.

Are there have nots that need to quit being drugged out children? Sure.

Should we point the finger at someone else who is doing something, no matter how small, and give our opinion on it? Sure.

Just don’t expect me to give you the “Atta boy” with a back slap.

I never bitch when someone throws condemnation my way because I throw enough shit out there myself.

After thought. Nobodies owes a homeless guy shit, not one thin dime.

So, when someone decides to do something, anything, view it as the act of charity it is.

Or don’t, none of my business really.

Unless you express that view to me.

Then the ball is in my court and all bets are off.

Everyone wants to have some silly ass opinion, but not actually have to defend it.

In my world debate has the same rules as boxing.

Keep your guard up and protect yourself at all times.

Welcome to the world of aggressive debate.

Welcome to Thunderdome, bitch.

Nowadays, people almost go into anaphylactic shock the second someone disagrees with them.

Debate is dead.

What most people think of as a discussion on Facebook is either a bunch of people agreeing with each other or name calling.

Present a differing view and it is often attacked like a sick wildebeest at the watering hole.

And here is the sad truth.

If you cannot debate your opinion rationally, which means to opposing viewpoints, without name calling, then you do not truly believe in your point either.

Like the vegetarian who’s whole world view, it seems, stems from a distrust of “That whole murder justified for profit thing.” that I argued with for the better part of an hour.

Her contention, was that eating meat of any sort distorts your world view to the point that you truly cannot make any decisions that involve murder.

It took an hour to get the following out of her:

1. She sometimes eats fish. She loves Chilean sea bass. Also, she rarely has chicken, but she does. (Which means this hipocritical bitch is part of the problem, according to her.)

2. Her talking point catch phrases were given to her and taken verbatim from a professor in college. (In other words, it wasn’t her opinion.)

3.  When she goes thru periods of only eating vegetarian, which sounds rare, she feels generally unwell.

I finished the conversation with a sense of pity.

This is the modern Facebook persona, the intellectual without any real intellect.

Sound bites without content. False science. False claims. Ineffectual activism that cannot effect that which it claims to help.

Its pathetic.

When you take the time to verbally break down, dissect and  ultimately disprove their claims, you get a lot of pissy childish responses.

“You have to be right at all costs.” (Being right is being right. And no animals were harmed in the course of this debate.)

“Hitler said something similar.” (Actually, dipshit, he felt the same way you do about the homeless. Congratulations.)

“You sound like a typical [Insert opposing political party here]. (Boy are you bad at this. I’m a libertarian, asshole. I think both sides are criminals.)

Debate is almost like playing a sport, if you have no ability and you keep getting your ass handed to you, maybe you should sit on the sidelines and let the pros take the field.

And you should see my endzone dance.

 
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Posted by on September 26, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Welcome to hell.

There are times I enjoy flying and times that I am in the 9th circle of hell, thinly disguised as United airlines.

And the reason is, there is an excellent chance that, at any given moment, you could be fucked with by the airlines, the government or other people, often without warning.

It begins subtly, you almost don’t notice it.

The car in front of you at the airport parking garage stalls as they are getting their ticket to raise the gate.

That takes  minutes.

While this is going on, the next lane over admits 15+ vehicles and you don’t have the option of backing up.

You have just had your first slice of “Being fucked with” pie.

Save room, there’s more.

The airport is all about lines. The line at the elevator is more of a mob.

And if you have not been trapped in a metal box on a hot summer day, you are missing out.

Would it KILL people to bath and use some deodorant?

And someone either farted or shit themselves somewhere between the s2nd and 3rd floor.

I remember because it was right after the Chinese woman got on at the 3rd floor with what smelled like dead fish in her bag.

Finally, the doors opened and we began shuffling out.

And we are so conditioned to being contained and shuttled thru shoots, its a lot like being human cattle.

If the English ever invade and start rounding up the Irish to put into prison colonies, they can pull it off if they involve elevators. (And this is their vile plan, according to my great grandma. She told me after her nurse left the room. I was 5, still makes sense today.)

And then we get to the crosswalk.

The crosswalk is being manned by the most heavily armed crossing guard I have ever seen.

Here is the weird part.

The airport has its own police.

That makes perfect sense, we live in a dangerous world, and terrorists seem to have a hard on for The USA and airplanes.

But, and this is where my head stops in place, why would your entire police force be old fat guys?

I did a quick study on the hiring requirements to become an airport cop.

Its the same as regular cops.

Huh.

Anyway, I was waved across the street by a morbidly obese man with a gun and a belly the size of a yoga workout ball.

Inside the terminal, the fun and games continue.

The cattle lines are longer, the tempers are shorter and the base intelligence scores are dropping fast. Its a grim room here, people.

The woman in front of me is losing her fucking mind.

Evidently, her flight leaves in ten minutes.

She is on the phone, complaining to someone who gives a shit. (I know its not me)

Here is the situation:

It seems that she was going to leave for the airport an hour ahead of time. (The airport recommends getting here 2 hours ahead of time. )

But, the cats were being so playful. (Personally, I hate cats)

And traffic sucked. (This is Los Angeles, there isn’t a time when traffic DOESN’T suck.)

And there is a line. (This is an airport, you tard. Of course there is a line.)

Now, by my figuring, and I realize that my not having a degree in physics or higher math I could be wrong, but with 10 people in front of her, there is no way this chick is going to make her flight.

And evidently, this is my problem.

“This is ridiculous, right?” She has pulled the phone away from her head and is talking to me.

“I hate cats.” You may think that is a shitty thing for me to say. It is, but when she realized that I am not who she wants to look for agreement with, she turned her back and continued her phone conversation.

The really shitty thing to say was to stare at her back and, in a creepy monotone voice, tell the story of how I accidentally ate cat once in Mexico and ended up chasing a lying burrito vendor thru the alleys of Tiajuana with a couple of friends, trying to kick his ass for selling us cat.

The moral of the story is that cat is fairly delicious.

I know, it fucks with me too and its been 25 years.

Anyway, of the 3 agents at the counter, cat lady is at agent #1.

Agent #2 has an Asian couple in their 50’s that are pissed and have been there since I came thru the door.

And their problem is bags.

They have a lot of them.

United Airlines  has a baggage policy that was written by either the Bavarian Illuminatus or expatriot Nazi’s.

!st checked bag ? $25. 2nd bag? $35. 3rd and on? $125 a piece.

Thats not a typo. $125

And the couple has a total of 14 bags.

And this is not an International flight, they are going to Portland.

Here is the cost breakdown.

They each get 1 $25 bag and 1 $35 bag. $120 spent and 4 bags down.
The remaining 10? $1250.

And I happen to know that round trip tickets to Portland are around $200.

And the couple’s logic is that if they keep yelling, eventually the airline will cave and ship their luggage for free.

Which will never happen, by the way.

The airlines will do everything but give away money.

They are just like us.

Mercenaries.

Nobody, with the exception of Mother Theresa, does what they do for a living out of love.

You do it for money or recognition.

I get that and have embraced it more than most.

I moved on from Mercenary to whore a long time ago.

Anything else that went on with the Asian couple was lost as I left agent #3 and headed to my gate.

I am early. Perhaps a beverage at yon tavern.

 
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Posted by on September 19, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The old woman in the shoe needs to stop fucking.

I have no idea if this is even medically possible, but, does there come a point where a woman’s lady parts just fall out and scurry out the door like a deranged rat from ill use?

This may be dirty, but not how you think.

I am talking about childbirth.

And I am not even targeting the easy one. The tv show, 19 And Counting.

I am talking about a true reality show going on at El Pollo Loco right now.

You could hear this family before they hit the front door.

Some people teach their kids to be polite in public and not scream an some don’t.

I would like you to meet Ms. Some Don’t.

You might think 13 children might be too many for one person to handle.

And you would be right.

Mrs. Some Don’t does not appear to have a lot of personal skills, like child rearing or discipline, herself or the kids.

However, she can lay prone and kiick out children like a motherfucker.

Watching the woman try to order and keep her kids from killing each other or burning the El Pollo Loco to the ground is like watching a blind man with down syndrome trying to herd kittens.

It stopped being amusing 5 seconds after the first one came thru the door.

I don’t see a wedding ring, so I can only assume that this is a solo adventure.

Feminists will tell you that a woman does not need a partner to have a child.

Can it be done by one person?

Sure.

But, to quote Chris Rock, you can drive your car with your feet if you want to, but that doesn’t make it a good fucking idea.

And then, the part that really pissed me off happened.

She is paying for lunch for her pack of rudeness with WIC.

Welfare, for those who don’t know.

Great, I am paying for this little production of Our Town. Awesome. (It may take a village, but get off your ass.)

I realize this will piss some of you off, that I am not celebrating the joy of life and the new American Dream.

Where everything is free, except for those of us who pay taxes, we’re the suckers that get to pay for room, board, medical, and college for anyone and everyone.

Fine, call me a rotten bastard, I stopped caring 2 weeks after I started this blog. If video games desensitize you to violence then this blog has desensitized me to holding my tongue and not screaming BULLSHIT when I see it.

I am a firm believer in carrying your own weight, and if you can’t afford something, don’t put yourself in that situation. Wipe your own ass.

I can only imagine the shit storm of hate mail I will get from this.

(And if you think I am kidding, consider the fact that I got 14 emails over my use of the phrase “Unholy bitch” a few weeks ago. Whining fucking maggots…)

As I write this, a total of 4 kids have been kicked out of the kitchen and two were involved in a salsa fight over at the condiments bar.

Mom has yet to open her mouth or chastise anyone.

My mother would have beat my ass for the antics I am witnessing.

I wonder if I could talk my mom into heading over here and beating the ass off of Ms. Some Don’t.

Based on my observations of Ms. here, Mom would make short work of this lazy carcass.

But, and I am going by personal memory here, the ass-whipping would pale in comparison to the verbal ripping she will be getting at the same time. (And don’t try telling her you won’t do it again, it just prolongs the ass-whipping.)

 
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Posted by on September 12, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Karma is now my personal hitman.

High school reunions are always a dicey thing, at best.

However, and this comes from crashing several high school reunions for years that I did not graduate in, but there may be a reason why some of us never stayed in touch.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some people I really enjoyed seeing. People that only life and circumstance has kept from hanging out with.

And then there are some that, 10 seconds after you start talking to them, you realize why you last saw or thought about them was in high school itself.

As a last minute thing, I recently went to a reunion for a year I did not graduate in.

Here is why it was last minute. Although I clicked on the “Going” button on Facebook, I was not planning on going, I was just tired of it sitting in the Invites section, staring at me.

It was in a beach city bar that I once got wildly drunk in and almost beaten to death. Call me superstitious but I am a big believer in bad vibes.

However, I found myself walking thru the front door.

And it was fine, I ran into a few people that totally reminded me of why that was one of the best periods of my life.

I also ran into a few that make me sooooo happy we were not closer back then.

A bitch rarely ages well, and there is a special brand of fugly that happens to the “Uber” bitches of our youth.

 Before you go all feminist on me, the primary bitch in my mind is a guy.

Several others were, in fact, women. That being said, I am kind of blind, sexism wise, on the subject of dislike.

Here are my top 5 reasons for dislike overheard at the reunion:

1. “She and I have hated each other since high school. She’s a slut”. (Translation- My boyfriend back then slept with her because I was holding out. I am incapable of blaming him.)

2. “She has hated me since high school, I don’t know why.” (Translation- I knowingly slept with her boyfriend back in school and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

3. “That chick is crazy.” (Translation- I cheated on my girlfriend with her in highschool and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

(Side note: Are you beginning to pick up on the Peyton Place/Jerry Springer drama here?)

4. “I hated you in high school.” (Translation- During the most insecure time in my life, you scarred me for life.)

5. “You were hysterical in high school.” (Translation- I took a lot of voyeristic pleasure in watching you torment others.)

And the only one I regret not hanging out with is the one I tormented. Its for the better, I was a rotten friend back then.

Now, here is the section of the blog were I get into the exciting part.

Just about every woman I went to high school with are at an intoxicating peak of hotness.

Its incredible what happens to a woman after she is done being a scared kid.

There is a level of confidence that only time can give but under the right circumstances, it can hit like a sensual meth for the libido.

Like a kid in a candy store.

But everybody, man or woman alike, breaks up into 3 catagories.

The first category is those friends who hit nirvana at some point, either married or not. They are worth a fortune, don’t talk about their money and seem genuinely happy.

Fuck em. I distrust these people on an instinctive level.

The second group is those who have kind of gone a different route. They have fucked up a lot since high school, but this seems to be the age that they get it together. They are innocent, like children, without that negative connotation.  They are warriors, fighting for every inch to regain ground they lost. More power to them.

The third group are my people. The functionally damaged. We are married or divorced and not wildly happy about one. If the career is high end, the relationship reads like a horror movie. If the career has had some rough turns, the relationship usually sucked in the past and they are on a better road. But the baggage is there, and the stories are better.

These are people who need to unwind.

And, sometimes, you find a little peace in the chaos. A little ray of sunshine among the dark. Some woman age well and then there are the ones that kill it. Always an odd thing to suddenly be overwhelmed by the earthy sensuality of a woman who is empowered and knows what she wants.

Enough said.

In all, I am glad I went, ran into some old friends, saw some old trash I once knew, and met one or two new friends.

And who doesn’t need some new friends?

In all, everyone seemed to have a good time, some more than others. Some, like the poor unfortunate that was being fed into the back of the police car as I was leaving.

Turns out she was the one who hated me, way back when.

I hate you too, sweetie. (And yes, I did laugh)

 
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Posted by on September 5, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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