There's just no excuse for not blogging...

I don't care how cute the pussy is.

 

Frank, never stop paying attention to the one thing that you can't stop doing.

Tom, I am sooo your manager. Some people may not know, but I'm a big fan of gangsta rap. You'd have the best entrance sting ever played to a professional spandex-clad man descending a catwalk.
Of course, I accept only under the condition that I get to walk behind you in a hooded robe while air boxing. (I know, wrong sport. I've just always wanted to do that.)
I'm still working on someone angrily pointing their finger toward an exit and commanding, "Get out!" I've always wanted to do that too, but haven't really found my angle yet. There are so few that don't end in incarceration or a lengthy subjection to morons, so I'll hold out for the Pay-Per-View ultimate manager challenge. I'm gonna rock!
...then maybe do Playboy.

Same sex weddings are hot!

I laughed. I cried. I boogied. And got to see a lot of chicks kiss. Fantastic.
It almost couldn't have gotten any better until they played the song from my junior prom. Back then, I was roughly escorted out of the dance by my boyfriend and called a nigger lover for dancing with a friend of mine. This time, overlooking the lights of Las Vegas, I got to hold my girl close and sing in her ear as we celebrated an interracial lesbian union.
(Take that, small town prick)

I found that I am now one of those people who cry at weddings. Eh, I can take it. So, I cry out of joy when I see how happy two people are in love. So, I'm a big ole pussy, fuck it.
It was gorgeous and they were beautiful. Good for them. I was honored to be a witness and an electric slider (Joel forgave me already).
A wonderful time was had and my date was the best lookin' chick there.
Though no Colonel Sanders or rubberbands, there's always next time.

No other conclusion can be drawn...
more people need to go hottubin'!

Thanks bitchcake!
My boobs look fantastic!
Whoo!

I must lick Christian Bale!

the man bounds and leaps
the power to make out with the few chicks I can stand (chloe, reese, emily),
AND granted the pleasure that I can (for now) only
self-lubricate to...

delivering a social commentary on the music of
HUEY LEWIS AND THE NEWS

and then driving an ax through spmeone's skull

fuck the sun, fuck batman

that is from where heroes are sprung


my hardware and duct tape pounded to my chest twice and raised -

you can fly,
you limey prick

make room

make a lot of fucking room

Whoo!

The big 3-1.

I should have expected it to be a little anti-climatic after last year's celebration, but thanks for remembering, girls.

An Indian lunch buffet with a girlfriend, a card from my godmother, and a call from an ex should have been enough for me to not break my promise, but it wasn't.
I did buy myself a shot at the airport bar and cheered the last few minutes before they slipped away.

Oh well.

At least, I'm older.