I'm coming to realize there are even more dangerous things to do while intoxicated than driving. Contemplating your life is one of them. Assembling furniture is not, but is certainly fraught with an obvious bit of peril. But let's face it, I'm in training. 
I've been honest-to-God trying to find a picture of myself to put to the left here. The sheer reality of it is that I don't keep pictures of myself. That's my family's job. No, seriously. The only pictures I have are me and my aunt at my mom's surprise 40th, me and the fam at Christmas 2003 in McAllen, and some crappy grainy webcam shot.
Because my roommate refuses to check the mail, I got a package a week late from my friend Michelle. It was a tape of Malagasy rock and a book called Punk Rock Aerobics. She's either saying I'm a badass punk rock motherfucker, or desperately in need of losing weight. Just kidding. She'd never do that. Besides, she knows I'm on the Ramen diet right now. Better than when I ran into an old friend during Brazoria Co. jury duty just before I moved in (and into Harris jurisdiction). "Dude, you've lost a lot of weight." "Rob, mon fraund, that's called cocaine." Oops. Is it wierd my friends have a habit of degenerating into lapses of Cajun? I mean, it's theoretically no worse than me track-switching from English to Mexican slang when I'm cussing someone out. "Gah! Shut the fuck up, mamn! I've had it with your mierda, cabrn!"
The latest in a long line of get rich quick schemes involves me, a U-haul, Richmond, VA, and a Tex-Mex resturant with really dirty names for entres. Like "Tacos al Cabrn" or "Queso con Mierda." That's basically what chil con queso degenerates to if you give me enough stuff to play with. "Cheese with some shit in it." God, I'm a fucking genius.
No, seriously. Certified and everything.
Oh, go to hell.
I've been honest-to-God trying to find a picture of myself to put to the left here. The sheer reality of it is that I don't keep pictures of myself. That's my family's job. No, seriously. The only pictures I have are me and my aunt at my mom's surprise 40th, me and the fam at Christmas 2003 in McAllen, and some crappy grainy webcam shot.
Because my roommate refuses to check the mail, I got a package a week late from my friend Michelle. It was a tape of Malagasy rock and a book called Punk Rock Aerobics. She's either saying I'm a badass punk rock motherfucker, or desperately in need of losing weight. Just kidding. She'd never do that. Besides, she knows I'm on the Ramen diet right now. Better than when I ran into an old friend during Brazoria Co. jury duty just before I moved in (and into Harris jurisdiction). "Dude, you've lost a lot of weight." "Rob, mon fraund, that's called cocaine." Oops. Is it wierd my friends have a habit of degenerating into lapses of Cajun? I mean, it's theoretically no worse than me track-switching from English to Mexican slang when I'm cussing someone out. "Gah! Shut the fuck up, mamn! I've had it with your mierda, cabrn!"
The latest in a long line of get rich quick schemes involves me, a U-haul, Richmond, VA, and a Tex-Mex resturant with really dirty names for entres. Like "Tacos al Cabrn" or "Queso con Mierda." That's basically what chil con queso degenerates to if you give me enough stuff to play with. "Cheese with some shit in it." God, I'm a fucking genius.
No, seriously. Certified and everything.
Oh, go to hell.
Ramen diet is the shit. Woot.