Bird Stealing Bread.

150 days until baseball season starts.

Go Clippers.

I almost got 34 hours of work next week, but the GM had a bitch fit. Ugh, I want money to buy me hoes.

In in one of those moods where everything comes out a curse word. I could say "comma x" and it'd sound like "cunty cunt mcFucks a lot."

I don't know why I swear so much, I guess it's purely indoctrination of what my family thinks is okay, and to them, swearing is okay. Swearing, to them, is part and parcel--comes with the territory. It's like that twisted oak down by the river on your fifty acres of farm in the Salinas Valley: it just comes with the territory (and would be a great place to commit suicide.)

Charles worked hard, had calloused hands, and died a lonely cook.

If I drive to school at the right time, I pass bus #7, which has some Spanish radio talent named "El Cucuy." I'm glad Mancow's Morning Madhouse got cancelled, because of El Cucuy.

It's nearing 1AM, I have school tomorrow, I can't sleep. I should get drunk and pass out. But I want to be a church patron, church leader, and not drinking now is definitely a good place to start.

Both defiance and submission will wind you up in Hell. In room 101.

All those bullshit cunts were faking tenacity.

Intransigence.

Nights for all those insomniacs and you. Notes to the dawn and letters to the sea, a marriage of glass-bottle and sea-salt proportions. Grow up and walk out and drown out all fears.

Tessla's mortal coil.

And I'm still waiting for Godot.