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In honor of Olivia, I hereby offer this shorter version of my previous post:

"Nyah-nyah, I'm into rough sex, so I'm better than you !"

Olivia, I (and all of SG) thank you.

Namaste, bitch!
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nixon:
Ami is a stinky hippie. Don't let him fool you.
amitabha:
OH IT'S ON NOW BITCH!
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Heh. I talk too damn much.

(Reposted from Livejournal)

So, to begin;

In order to kick start this diatribe, I need to make a sweeping generalization:

People who wear all black (P.W.W.A.B.) are lame now.

Ah. That felt good.

Now, having established the tone and the mood, and caused some nervous giggles and a quick bout of introspection (Do I wear all black?...
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olivia:
I love how all your entries boil down to:

"You suck, pussy!"

"P.S. I'm not judging you!"


kiss
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Right now, somewhere, someone's spine is arching in pleasure.

And the next spine to arch could be yours.

Being alive... is it's own reward.
nixon:
Translation: right now, old people and fat people are fucking in trailer parks. This will result in more children with rat tails, my peeve of the day.
amitabha:
sweet, thats what i like to hear.
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And to think, you could be making out right now..

::raises eyebrow::
amitabha:
a bird told me that you were camping w/ Deathguild this year. Are you ditching us?!
nixon:
Dear You-

Gahahahahahahahah!

I win like 10 bets with myself.

You rule.

Cheers.
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White Boy Dread tips 101.

Find a Jamaican, the older, the better.

Lock him in the cellar with an ounce of Marijuana, and "Peter Tosh's Greatest Hits".

Force him to teach you to speak in Rastafarian patois. Take away the reefer if he gives you any lip.

If he continues to resist, replace Peter Tosh with Creed.

Continue process for 6-8 weeks.

RESULT:

You won't...
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Ahem.

Brief plans with a strange girl that ended up, seven hours later, with myself at the Mezzanine, listening to the worst (unknowing) Cure cover band EVER, doing tequila shots with drunken security staff, check.

Getting drink tickets and comped entry at a club I've never been to before, check.

Telling a fat, drunk, British hipster that if he didn't stop pointing his finger in...
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nixon:
That would be Boulevard.Unfortunately,the dungeon is the small party room, for groups of 10-12. ( it was great with 10). the rest of the place is cool, but not nearly as cool.
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Um.

I met a cute girl last night. She spoke French, knows what a 'heresiarch' is, and comes from far, far away.

Hmmm.

::raises eyebrow::

I sense some non-capsicum-based candlelit dining in the near future.
kalischild:
Ahem.

Brief plans with a strange girl that ended up, seven hours later, with myself at the Mezzanine, listening to the worst (unknowing) Cure cover band EVER, doing tequila shots with drunken security staff, check.

Getting drink tickets and comped entry at a club I've never been to before, check.

Telling a fat, drunk, British hipster that if he didn't stop pointing his finger in my face, I was going to bite it off, check.

Getting a big hug from a psychotic Samoan who insisted that we were both from Brooklyn, check.

Rockstar parking at the DNA, check.

Spontaneously nominating myself as the newest member of DNA security staff, check.

MORE drink tickets, check.

Deciding that Asian hip-hop nights are FUNNY, check.

Being the WORST poker player ever at the Legion of Decency, check.

Drunk as a saint, check.

Fights started: zero.

Fights prevented: several.

Quantity of alchohol consumed: Lots.

So, who's down for lunch?
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Yeah.

I could use popcorn, a good movie, and a cuddle.

And rum.

Instead, it's off into the night, and the fray.

And rum.
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Originally posted on LiveJournal

Intensity, intensity, intensity.

My curse, my albatross, my most remarkable quality.

I simply don't believe in allowing the volume to fade.

Something you may not know about me; I write haikus and give them to strangers that I see on public transit. I assemble elaborate treasure hunts and leave treasure maps for people I find beautiful and intriguing. I'll come to...
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