My head feels like a swimming pool full of date rape spikes. At any moment a proponent of intelligent design could leap out from the shadows and try to skull fuck me into a coma. There may be some twisted plot waiting to be sprung upon me, but then again I may be underestimating the situation.It's not all bad news though. I have fallen in love with something besides chocolate milk and the memory of stovepipe hats and jaunty strolls down the boardwalk. My affection is for several people, but that is all I can say without exposing myself to the fact that I may be some sort of a mortal after all. The surgery should take care of this, but for now I am what I am.
True fact: I have just spent two days with this particular journal entry safely nestled away in a Firefox tab between hyper-intense midget bestiality and a letter to grandma. The auto save function has expired and now sits besides chivalry in the hall of the passed. Auto save... you were cherished above all others. The grace you maintained during the spell check's tenure as flavor of the century was inspiring. I want to asphyxiate you with the smoochiest of kisses.
But you're now you're gone, until the time when I finally reset the page which approach is at such a painfully slow rate that one could equate it to being a stone slab of senior citizens being driven by an intoxicated sponge who failed it's driving test and lives in constant fear of being discovered by the bus company's thorough internal affairs division.
Holy hole punchers, I just snotted out a bogs worth of mucous and blood, all over my pancho. Whatever, ennui hour initiate.
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