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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Monday, November 9   >>



We were at a party.

"Can you squirt?" I asked.

"I dunno," she said.

She moved her mouth even closer to my ear.

"Can you make me?"

If what happened next were in a television sitcom, you'd see vintage footage of fireworks exploding, a ticker tape parade in black and white and a choo-choo train going in a tunnel in fast-motion while a midget who is visibly excited straddles the caboose and bounces in sync to Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture.

When the cannons explode, that means... well, yeah.

I've officially coined her vagina "Old Faithful 2: Lost in New York."



I wake up.

There's blood everywhere.

Last night was a good, good night.



I wake up again, not from sleep, but from the oxycontin. Fat Fuck Frank, who delivers it every Friday, pronounces it "oxycotton" in hopes of masking the actual drug name, forgetting that it's a homonym to the name of its masked source. He should be named Foolish Fat Fuck Frank. One time, Al Gore personally invited us to a private home screening of "An Inconveniently Scheduled 2-Hour PowerPoint Presentation" and Fat Fuck Frank asks Al fucking Gore, "Are you on XBOX Live?" When Al Gore smilingly said he was, there was a 6 second silence that seemed to have lasted longer than his ass-boring movie about polar bear rape. It only furthered the humiliation that I have under Al fucking Gore's shadow in that my entire professional livelihood tethers on assassinating his character and his policies daily on my weekday radio show, and now I have to eat his skank ass wife's fish eggs and pretend that what just happened didn't even happen?

I stumble out of bed, barely.



It wasn't "Oxycotton" after all.

It was a sugar rush.

There's a rogue cocksucker in my radio office replacing all my pill kush with custom M&Ms that have the exact same happy face ink marks as the ones on my weekly reserve of "Oxycotton." In my findings, custom M&Ms can be made online and come with a disclaimer that jests, "If in any fashion the M&M company finds the custom marking to resemble any sort of medication, it will refuse the production of the custom order without refund and explanation."

I didn't know 19 M&Ms could have such an effect.



There's a truck stop.

I won't make a stop.

I won't make a stop.

I won't make a stop.

I won't make a stop.

"Hey, big boy, I know your VOICE."

I'm targeted. I'm sorry to you, reader, that I failed to let you know I actually parked my car and sat on the hood for a while until I heard "Hey, big boy, I know your VOICE" a few minutes later.

"Please," I beg, "Don't say anything and please, just..."

And "Hey, big boy" guy took off his black mesh t-shirt, crumpled it into a medium sized ball, shoved it hard into his mouth and started humming "Heart of Glass" by Blondie.

Mesh t-shirts make my knees itch. I thanked him again for taking off his mesh t-shirt.



I refuse to accept the reality that on my salary I can afford 950 chauffeurs a day.





If there's a road to redemption, I'm buried underneath it. Right now.



"We're on in five, four, three, two..."

I hate my job.

"Back from our guh-lorious EIB Network offices, it's The..."