This motherfucker is bad ass.

Don't tell my mom you guys.

- "Great Lakes/Great Escapes"//The Lawrence Arms (Oh! Calcutta!)

Modern Life is like picking berries on a sweet summer's eve

Modern Life is War at the Beat Kitchen 9/9.

Week in Review

My room is trashed. I'm currently surrounded by discarded Coke cans and beer bottles, plus an old pizza and my clothes, which have managed to explode out of my room into the hallway. There are various snack foods ingrained into the carpet. I haven't changed my clothes in two days. I spent the last of my money buying a cheap cheeseburger and some generic form of Dayquil. I've been sick all week and ensconced in newspaper, so my schedule has been sleep, class, newspaper; repeat. I stared at InDesign for over eight hours yesterday. I thought I was going crazy, plus I was swearing revenge on vigilante freshmen journalists who don't fucking understand what being 'unbiased' means. They also don't understand the difference between 'conspiracy theories 'and 'facts.' I know, it's a fine line. I skipped class today, again (off to a real great start!) and am contemplating if I should reply to this email the lead singer of Orange sent me, defending the similarities between "Suburban Home" by the Descendents and his own song "Republicans." I care way too much about people liking me (whether it seems that way or not). I'm going to Walgreens to go buy some new food with money I don't have. If I can get through Saturday night and only spend the last five dollars in cash I have, oh boy, I will be so fucking proud.


I can't decide if this is perfect or really lame.


I do wish my apartment didn't smell like ashen popcorn though. Ugh, roommates.

Many Days Have Passed

My drinking exploits this weekend have left me a little fucked up. Friday night I tripped over my jeans and fell on the corner of this trunk in my room and am now rocking a major bottleneck bruise. Last night I just couldn't get my ass on the barstool at the L&L so I landed on the floor like a cockroach on its back and that somehow fucked up my ankle. Sometime after that is where my memory cuts out. Too much beer. I handle the first like, four beers real well, then I get to about eight and I should be done, but at that point I need beers like Meursault needed water that fateful day on the beach. So anyway, I hit the point past counting, which I think means about 12 and I'm gone. Only this time I seriously was gooooone. Black out! Shout it out loud, the devil's keeping time on the brake pad now.*

Gross.

Two of these, about four cans of Miller Lite, two Old Styles and then who knows.

In conclusion, I'm out forty bucks at least.

I can't say I'm filled with pride. Blacking out does not equal pride. Not only that but I've basically spent the whole weekend in a venomous booze-filled haze or asleep. I think I've been sober a whole six hours out of the past 48. And to where am I headed tonight? A bar. A bar with cheap beer and punk rock. Goddammit.










*The Falcon/"Blackout"