BigSleep666

Man: "I'm afraid to cry."
Woman: "I'm afraid of being raped."

You're cute when you smile.

I'm following you home.
I'm in your apartment.
I'm cutting up your credit cards.

"The truth is, Mom, I'm not very tall and my hair's not very thick."

I've reached another awkward stage in my adulthood: I realize I don't have any casual clothes for grown-ups. I've got hardcore t-shirts galore, but when hardcore girls grow up to become either academics or drug addicts, I'm left not impressing anybody in my circa 1994 Endpoint t-shirt.

It's because of guys like me that, if I were a pretty girl, I would second guess every man I encountered. I know this, because I've spent an awful lot of time mapping out what my life would be like if I were a pretty girl. For one thing, I'd put out something fierce.

If the FBI was bugging my car, the one line that would show up most often in their transcriptions would be "Nice turn signal, jackass!"

In your best frustrated, angered Southern drawl: "Boy, you best listen up, cuz I'ma learn you a thing or two something good about suckin dick for crack!"

And now a reading from The Blog of Pain!:

"They look like big, good, strong hands. Don't they? I always thought that's what they were. My little friends. The little man with his racing snail, the Nighthop, even the stupid bat. I couldn't hold on to them. The nothing pulled them right out of my hands. I failed."
- Rockbiter, The Neverending Story

Labels: The Blog of Pain

I still haven't found the right words to describe just how pretty you are, but on a scale of 1 - 10, you are the Sun.

Today at work a coworker misunderstood something I said as "Sometimes I get on my chair - and pretend it's a whore." (I said "horse.") What was most striking was she thought I said this, and it didn't faze her. That it's just the sort of thing that I would say. That I'm the kind of guy who would talk about fucking office furniture. That's the reputation I have in my office.

Middle fingers for everyone!

I just finished two more chapters in my self-help weightloss book: "Disorder is a Prejudicial Word" and "Anorexia's Not that Bad."

"The blog is coming from inside the house!"

"Boy, I love you as if you were my own faggot son."

Last night my ex-girlfriend called me just to make me feel bad about myself, and you know what I always say: "It's important to set goals, and then accomplish them!"

I assume that anyone waiting at a bus stop is an alcoholic. I think they know I assume this, too, because that's what I shout at them when I drive by.

From the "Made Me Chuckle"-Files: (part of an e-mail from a friend) "you are like the guy in NO HOPE, who comes home and is unhappy, but puts the Jawbreaker record on and feels better. except with you it's Jets to Brazil and your CD player is broken."

Totally separate from me not knowing how to dance, I just don't get dancing. It doesn't making any sense to me.

Last night, I noticed that at some point hippie chic became gypsy chic.