No shit Jack. No shit. Lots of "life" going on up in here. I'm surprised I have not yet broken down and robbed a bank. It seems my breakdowns involve tweezing my eyelashes and way too much alaprozam. Oh life. You got me again you devil you.
On a positive note I'm turning the big 3-0 in eight days. Why is that positive? Well it's not. But Coco Chanel feels me. I'll see your gorgeous classy lady and raise you a hot-drunken-bed-peeing mess. Irresistible is right.
I want a tattoo for my 30th birthday. Why? Because I'm a badass and not fearing my future wrinkled self anymore. That "what about when your skin is old and wrinkley" thought has probably rightfully kept me from tatting myself up long enough I say! My original plan for 30 was a party bus and painting the town red. Then I lost my job, my best friend, my apartment, my sanity, and all my eyelashes in the same day. At what point does it stop being a disaster and just become an accomplishment? Because I am going for the GOLD!
Certain things never change. I am not good at staying single, having girlfriends, keeping boyfriends, keeping it pc or hiding the wreck that I am. The problem is I keep ending up in the same place over and over. Here I am, new guy, new living situation, new set of friends, new decade. Let's see how long it takes me to fuck this all up. Sad part is... I don't even care. I might as well document this shit show coming down the pipeline. Here is me... pretending that I am going to blog more regularly again. Since my insurance plan was Obamafied... it's the only therapy I can afford.
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