Oh heyyyy.

Can't stop saying 'oh heyyyyy' lately. Picture a pre-pubescent boy with down-syndrome saying that. That's what my voice sounds like. Great.
It's a line that gets me laid. So. "Whateva, whateva!"

Um. Let's start things off with:



Oh my God. Do want. Take me to the cattery. Ugliness has never been so endearing.

Moving on.
Stuck in my head:

Everybody's talkin' bout me and my baby, makin' love til the morning light!
Love the cheesy saxophone. [Fun fact: I played the sax for six years. Then I realized it was a strange instrument that's totally useless in all the genres of music I'm interested in. Har har har. Jazz hands! And people ask how I'm so dexterous ;)]

So, I saved the best for last. My computer is filled with Notepad chicken scratch poems, ramblings, stories, quotes, etc. I typically write a few a day. And recently, while going through all my recent documents, I saw a title which I don't recall writing, last updated on January 25th. It was called "Hey Hipster." Hmmm, what the fuck is this? I quickly opened the document in question, only to find the most unintelligible pile of bullshit in history. My only guess as to how this came about is, well, I mistakenly took my nightly Ambien while I was plastered drunk. For anyone not familiar with Ambien, it's a prescription sleep aid that, when combined with alcohol, can turn anyone into a bumbling fool who appears to be tripping on mushrooms. Although it's a great cure for my incessant insomnia, even without the alcohol it sometimes shuts off the reasoning portion of my brain while simultaneously erasing anything resembling inhibitions, and transforms my dreams into vivid, lucid, outrageous cutscenes from a Ken Kesey acid trip. It should be used as truth serum. Never turn your back on Ambien. Ever. So anyway, I can only guess what else happened on this night, but I do know that as per usual with this drug, I turned into a voracious, unclever lesbian.
I now present Exhibit A, "Hey Hipster". Please, for the love of all that is holy, brace yourself:

Shhh, girl just tell them how it really is
take off that cakey poker facey
I love whores, but won't fuck Tracy
want your Big Kahuna like Kevin Spacey

Color me a captivating hipster composition
with you caclaculating canvas copulation
Won't fuck even the tiniest bit of you
to save the population

I can rhyme
slanted
and shitty
and then
go like
this

It means something to me.
But maybe not you.
But maybe it's vice versa.
I don't need a baby boo.
Really want you--so maybe I do.

I fuck nerds til they lose their spectacles
I knock a bitch up without even testicles
I am pro choice when a girl is pro moist
when i finish you will rejoice
in shame
or maybe plastic forks
and chopsticks
and poop
will be found in your virginal hottyhole.
that would be quite the alarm.
good night, sweet
spit on my hands and rub

Where am I going with this?
I like you, hipster.

--------------------------------------------------

Oh. My. God. I can't even...
Who's Tracy? And Kevin Spacey? caclaculating? hottyhole?
"I like you, hipster" ? What the fuck did I think I was I going to do, profess my undying love for this girl by presenting her with this divine piece of art about finding forks in her vagina?
There are so many reasons why drugs are bad, and if this isn't a prime example, I don't know what is. Even prescription medications that are meant to keep me from going insane, well, make me fucking insane. Can't help but love this, though. And, based on the date, I can totally guess who my obscenely intoxicated ass was attempting to write this to. Aaaaaaaand, if they knew, they'd never talk to me again. Hahahaha. In my past life, my name was clearly Creepster McCreepins.