huh?

Why doesn't Google know that Johnnie Cochrane is dead?

day three

I didn't cry today!

Can you accidentally become anorexic? I was just wondering. My face doesn't feel so flabby anymore, and my pants fit and shit. I'm very proud of myself, but I haven't been eating much. I've realized that when i'm not high ten hours a day, I'm not hungry like the wolf. Of course this is certainly not the first time I've tried to cut down, but this is the first time I've lasted on a diet for more than a month, and this is most definitely the first time I've exercised every morning since I was 10 or 11, and that was technically considered "playing outside". I wish I could still play outside. Maybe tomorrow I'll go buy a wiffle ball and tear down the street with a lollipop in my mouth and a baseball cap on. If you know me that would be quite a humorous visual. In every picture I've ever seen of myself as I kid, I always had shit on my face, including "professional" school pictures. Paul is eating Velveeta shells and cheese in front of me and I almost just broke my no-cry record for the day.

So I just got a call from my mom. We dropped her off at the airport at 10am, and her flight left for Altanta at 2pm. When she got to Atlanta, there was a delay on the runway, and her connecting flight left without her and about ten other people. So they gave her a food voucher, which she was suprisingly content with, and told her to hang in there until another opportunity arose for her to get to Florida. Now it's 9pm and she's still in Altanta! Apparently, she actually got a spot on a flight out at around 5:45pm, and this crazy bitch who had been waiting about six hours less than her freaked out on the AirTran people, and they gave her my mom's spot! So my mom just called me telling me that she was tired and cold, and I'm a little pissed off right now. I just called AirTran and the fucktard that answered the phone wasn't very sympathetic. Now, because of the weather, she isn't even guaranteed a flight until midnight. So the guy on the phone tells me "well her flight is delayed because of the weather". Duh, but if the other plane hadn't left without all of its passengers because of a mistake that your company made, she'd have been in Ft. Lauderdale six hours ago before the fucking weather started getting bad! So, I was remarkably calm on the phone with him, hoping that he could at least put her up in a hotel or something, and he hurried me off the phone. In his defense, I can only imagine how many angry ass people, and relatives of angry ass people flying from Atlanta are on the other lines waiting to chew him out. My poor mom works sixteen hours a day, and this is her only vacation she gets to take out of the whole shitty year, and she only goes because me and my sisters pay for the plane ticket, and this has to happen. Maybe I should call the gate desk. Anyone have any ideas?

still day two...

It's only fucking 10:00pm. No wonder old people go to bed at 9pm, they're not drug addicts. I wish I just had a little tiny bowl. No, stop it Bison. You're not smoking today. We had purchased an ounce a couple of weeks ago, and it's all gone now. When Ryonce came over the first weekend that we bought it, I rolled a penis sized blunt, and we were already drunk, and now I can't stop thinking about it. I had an important paper to write this weekend, and I smoked up until the very last day I had to write it, and only because we ran out. I thought about how ridiculous I was acting, I couldn't stop smoking for one day for something that will effect almost half of my grade for English Honors at community college. This guy already thinks I'm slow. Last weekend we were supposed to write a one page paper about a poet, and I thought he said to write one page for the other larger paper that was due a week from then. So I hand in a rough draft of an introduction of a paper. I got it back on wednesday, and he put a page sized question mark on the cover. Oh yea, and I said "fuck" in the first sentence, which I really do not suggest doing in a research paper for an honors class unless you're a genius. I took one of those online IQ tests once when I was stoned, and my IQ was 82. I think that's actually mentally retarded. I don't know why I just admitted that.

day two

It really is all about one day at a time for this sort of thing. I do not want to completely stop smoking marijuana. Frankly, my life is not exciting enough to take away the drugs just yet. It's week 5 since I began to diet, and I've noticed that I only shit every couple of days. It's also week 2 since I've begun working out on my bowflex, and I am well on my way to becoming hot. Birdman is about 3 feet away from me, wearing my red and pink striped baking apron singing Sublime's "Wrong Way" very badly, and just about as loud as humanely possible. At least he's doing the dishes. Apparently, he updated his blog today, I don't know what he's said, but it better be about how much he wants to lay it into me. Something tells me it's not about that. We haven't done that in a couple of weeks, and before that we hadn't done it in months. But don't let Birdman know I told you that. He's got a little problem getting the noodle up. If he were a clown, I could use a balloon joke analogy, but then again, if he were a clown, we wouldn't really have much of a relationship. In fact, we wouldn't have one. I'm just kidding, he's got a nice, big, thick, hard dick that works perfectly fine. It's really all my fault. Our sexual problems are all my fault. See, I get tired at night, and cranky. And I always know when he wants to do it. After he brushes his teeth, he drops his man panties, and then does this crazy thing where he'll flick his boxers up with his foot, and his limp dick does this nasty little jump, and it seriously freaks me out. Then he'll get into bed, and we'll nibble and bark at each other (this is the absolute truth, we're the couple that "dog talks"), and then I'll do my 'hot five year old' voice, and say "Oh daddy i'm tired!" and I think it freaks him out as much as the boxer thing does to me, and I'll just continue using the 'hot five year old' voice until both of us are too tired to hit it. I would blame the marijuana, but the first three months of our relationship, we did nothing but smoke blunts and fuck all over the house. I think it's the futon. Our sexual problems are all the futon's fault. Who wants to do it on a futon, you know? It's really sad. We have a perfectly good bed, but it's king size and it doesn't fit in our tiny little bedroom. Literally, if we put the bed in our room, there would be absolutely no more space left. Our bed would be the room. Like...a bedroom. Hmm.

I am sucked into this title bar like it's a blackhollle

Just for the record, I was wrong. You should only date men with fucked up fathers.

THANKS!

This beef goes out to whoever's creating this thing:

Why the fuck wasn't I born in England? My dog's accent is most certainly British. I've found out in the last couple of days that I am actually now a mix between the spirit of John Lennon AND Graham Chapman. In fact, I think when I tripped last week I was invaded by a couple of energy bits still left from Hunter S. Thompson. And when Brucio dies, I hope his energy bits don't forget me.

I've become obsessed with exercising.

I thought that sentence deserved it's own space, because it's truly a wonderful new discovery. I think at this point my worst fear is looking like Chyna. At first I thought I might become addicted to diet pills and protein shakes, just to see, you know, that side, but thank you to Angela and my Momandgrandma for scaring me away from the protein shakes.

Whenever I smoke for long periods of time and forget to pay my bills on time it kind of sucks. In fact, i've come up with a little phrase for it. When I had my "TRAINING WHEELS" on, I tried to forget I weighed a lot and hated most everyone around me. But my life has changed because I tried mushrooms, and that's when Hunter S. Thompson took over my soul. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go buy a gun.

I'm back, can't afford a gun. But you guys know what I mean, right? I think that if my brain had an ethnicity it would be the same as my vagina: A raging premenstrual Latino/African American mix. I'm supposed to be writing this GRAND paper about Langston Hughes and Mos Def (FUCK ME MOS DEF, COME OVER WITH ANDRE 3000 AND FUCK THE SHIT OUT OF ME I HAVE POPCORN!), and it's due on Monday, but all these things in my mind keep popping up and I don't want to kill it with logic. I think i'm losing it....No. I think I'm getting it back.
THE ROOF
THE ROOF
THE ROOF IS ON FIRE

You know what folks? I loved Napoleon Dynamite, it was a very funny movie. In fact, I saw it ten years ago, only it was called Welcome to the Dollhouse, and it was A LOT funnier.

Three o' clock...be there...i'm gonna wape you.

Have you seen these motherfuckers with their bookbag luggage? It seems like everywhere I go, some stupid fuck is wheeling something around all serious as fuck like they're at the airport. At what point in time did we start caring about our back health? Just yesterday I witnessed some stupid bitch, wheeling about all haphazardly in the middle of the street trying to light a cigarette. If you're not retarded or injured, you don't get wheels! First we steal black music, and now retarded transportation?! I'm sure you're expecting me to follow up with a "What's next...", but there really isn't any. We have sucked stupidity dry. Modernism, sheesh, whaddyagonnado?

It's March again. Well, by the looks of a couple of garbage cans around campus, my favorite eating facility of all time (and for which I will one day own several) is offering their customers a chance...to rolll up the rim to win. I don't know why these few blissful weeks mean so much to me. I think it's the chase, personally. I really want a creuller right now. Oh god, a creuller, all delicious and fluffy. I wonder how long it's going to take me to wake up.