Jesus I felt like fucking Sisyphus in the last half hour while I worked my way through this thread. Finish a page? Two more are now staring me down in the corner. It's Friday night yet I spent the whole day boat boozing and pretending to fish and therefore pursuing any social agenda is about as appealing as a prostate exam. With my liver (and skin, for that matter) thoroughly brutalized and just barely enough energy to manipulate the touchpad on my laptop and light my bubbler I soldiered on. Here at the finish line it actually feels a bit anticlimactic; perhaps more tits and ass are in order. Further ensuring a blackout and/or physical collapse if I were to venture out was the very alarming (no, really) awakening I had around 3:30 A.M. E.S.T. It all started out like a normal Thursday evening - I was unwinding from a stressful day at work in front of the tv as he hurried about the place chugging beers and applying a copious quantity of Polo Douche to several collared shirts to be chosen from. Of course all of this was in preparation for a ritual he should have outgrown about four years ago - college night at all of the shittiest bars/clubs on the downtown strip. Wanting to get abundant rest for the boating I decided to take some nyquil (fuck it, make mine a double) and lay it down as soon as I had the house to myself. Given that the green stuff was pumping through my system I didn't hear him stumble in nor did I smell it when the asshole broke his promise not to smoke in the house. What finally did raise me from the dead was the fucking smoke alarms. When I opened his bedroom door to begin my onslaught of slurred, vulgar inquiries and insults a thick wall of smoke surrounded his bed; it was a powerful aroma. A familiar, powerful aroma - smoldering %100 cotton. Twice in the four months we have lived together this fucking animal has managed to set his blanket/bed on fire. The first time, and I remember this vividly, was Cinco De Mayo. I got home from work and had my first encounter with the alluring scent of a burnt blanket; he had been drinking by the pool all day and passed out on his futon bed in the late afternoon. He woke up to smoke one but didn't bother with petty stuff like finishing it or putting it out. The crater left behind in the mattress was the death blow to an already scarred and stank sleep surface which necessitated it's disposal via third floor balcony. His blanket, a hearty and sprawling reversible piece in flannel pattern, survived the first blaze with a mere basketball sized gap which after a washing could pass for a rip. This time it reached the point of no return and must be trashed, just not before photo documentation. A day of all windows open and a box of Nag Champa later the smell lingers and all my clothes smell like a head shop. Here are the remains. It's very symbolic actually - as his blanket has burned, so too will the half-completed lease renewal he recently put on the fridge. Also, note that he has cut out the corner to save. This thing must have a ton of sentimental value - shit it nearly killed him twice. Edit to pose the question: How did you take the picture? Friend? Family? Nurse? I can't be the only one thinking about the logistics...
I can fuck with Frank Ocean. Also, Roxanne, quit it. You shouldn't be able to draw that well that quickly. You're making me jealous.
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The girlfriend and I woke up at 5 from being jet lagged, had sex, and went to McDonalds for breakfast. It was classy.
I wonder what Diablo's ass looks like. I should go back to bed and let my imagination take over. seems like i missed quite the party. did bewildered back up her word (so to speak)