shooting stars

I've done nothing today. I'm so tiiiiiiiiiired, while i was typing that I was trying to think of a way to incorporate tire iron, but I couldn't, so...tire iron.

[insert: I don't know why I think of these things, I just do, then I write them down]


Last night a couple of coworker and I went out to a magazine party at SUGARLAND, the local gay discotheque. There where a lot of hotties hawtees hot teas(?) there. As per usual I went home alone and drunk and cried myself to sleep while i was eating a sandwich.

scene:

Door opens to a disheveled apartment.
An assortment of shoes strewn near the entrance.
Miscellaneous clothes and underwear are in the kitchen (the bathroom is located off of the kitchen, so it isn't as gross as it sounds, but still pretty, ooky).
The florescent lights turn on to a be-suspendered 23 year old homosexual with one pant leg rolled up to reveal a tube sock worn over the calf (he was trying something for the evening, whatever he thought it looked ok).
He makes a sandwich, turns on his laptop, starts crying hysterically.

end scene

I joke, I joke.....or do I?




I wouldn't kick that outa bed