Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Pouring Rain Is No Place For A Bicycle Ride. Today, a man that was not waiting on me, said hello. And (!) asked me how I was. No, no. Let me rephrase. Today an attractive man, that was not waiting on me, said, "Hello, how are you?" Yes, let us all mark this day on the calendar. Today being the first day in a very long time someone wasn't afraid of me. 'Cause we all know how scuuuury I am. . . . "Andhoware you thismorning?" "Awesome. How are you?" "Spiffy." Yes. Spiffy indeed, Mr. High Water Black Pants With White Socks Starbucks Worker Person. . . . I'd like to call a group prayer at 7 pm, Pacific Standard Time. In this prayer, we will all pray that the Sacramento Kings KICK THE FUCKING ASSES off of that team in Southern California that is named after bodies of water. We will also hope that the fat fucker that plays for them falls down and breaks his fat neck. And, also, the boy who's name resembles that of cheese twists every joint in his body until he resembles a human pretzel. Surely, I've mentioned my deep hatred of all teams from Texas. Well. There is one place which rivals that hatred, and that is Southern California. It's a long, long tale of water and resources and money, and the Raiders (who don't even play there any more) and the Dodgers and the Lakers. . . . Am I the only one who wants a party dress so they can wear Chuck Taylors and run around jumping in puddles with their mascara all smeared? I think I like songs about party dresses more than songs about trains and fire. . . . Now I'm going to Tower Books in my pajamas. Then, I'm going to go scream at basketball players on the TV at my Dad's house. 5:04 p.m. - 2003-04-10 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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