Tuesday, November 9, 2004

I am writing from the mighty hiptop of mr wobbly. It is even more
exciting since I have had a second glass of cider. I am exhortating
wobbly to eat all of his damn fukkin crust cuz, dammit, that fucking
bread is expensive. He is telling me that it is good. What a nice
man. I am jess gonna embrace the typos. Where is the backspace on this
thing? That is okay, you don't have to tell me. He says excessive use
of this gives you an intense case of nintendo thumb. I shudder to
imagine. He is asking if I often post open quote drunk off my ass close
quote. Au contraire, I am not drunk yet. Lies, dirty lies. What may
you ask comma am I doing with a man at 327. Well, he was here to draw
the naked hippy. What other reason does one need to be at 327? He got
to drive here, the poor little urban dweller that he is, doesn't own his
own detroit death machine like I do. Poor sap. He is doing our dishes
right now. Man, its so domestic. The housemates are gone.... The
music is blasting, we're revelling in being loud and obnoxious. Just
like the carefree days of college.

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I blog about life and soup, but mostly soup.

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