Holy shit. Seems like they're gonna make me keep writing this thing, totally oblivious to the fact that I have NO FUCKING ARMS. Who's got gin? Apparently, not me, till after I finish this pointless diatribe. I said I'd never blog. I also said I'd never wind up face down in a puddle of somebody else's urine in a porta-loo with after a two-day whiskey bender with the Ladyboys of Bangkok. I say a lot of things.
Day Three around here and I don't know about them, but I'm ready to do the show. I'm always ready. I'm also always hammered. I think that's the secret to my success. And why I'm really happy we're playing in a bar this year. It may LOOK like my elementary school cafeteria with some epilepsy-inducing horrific Christmas lights strung up all over the walls, but there's a bar, so at least I can get drunk and laugh at spasaming epileptics. Oh like you haven't.
I didn't ask to be this beautiful.
Speaking of beautiful, that blonde one came back to the apartment wearing a big ass sombrero. Now normally she looks like a train full of Laura Dern that crashed into Cameron Diaz, but wearing that sombrero, I was like 'Wow, Pancho Vajayjay, step over here and let me get to smell you better.' Don't think she liked that. Don't care.
That fat one that looks like Harry Potter put his hand up my ass again. He keeps doing that. Then he looks at me adoringly. Fucking weirdo.
The goddamn long haired hippy keeps going on about how great the flyers are. If they're so great, hippy, why don't use them TO PUT IN YOUR BIG MOUTH. Or go light some more Mag Champa. I don't give a fuck.
The little yippy one got a Blackberry. I always thought he was a douche. CONFIRMED. Brought to you from my AssBerry Wireless Device.
Seriously, I gotta get on stage. All this bitterness is killing me. I want to learn to love again. Maybe you.
Till lates, and tell your mom I said 'Hi',