smith

My World War II A-9 oxygen mask beats the living shit out of yours.

Chumps.

This segment of a Winds song that is sweep-picked has been repeating in my head for upwards of eight days now.

Things I have learned recently:

1.) My budgeting skills are poor.

2.) Rain can be a severe hindrance when you're trying to assemble friends to go shooting at some range 40 minutes away. I'm convinced this is some manner of portent; God doesn't want...
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w00t. I have a motion tracker from Aliens, and you don't. Wither, ladies. Wither.

This day needs to end.

Now.





Goddammit. It hasn't ended yet.

WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK

I LOVE TEH PMIKQ DSALHGDJSHGF;;;.

Unfounded, irrational jealousy has a ruinous effect on a quiet night with a book on Kursk.

Grr.

I remember the USAF Thunderbirds as having a much more diverse and cutting edge show.

Jormungund George is a fine computer hax0ring companion, as he unwittingly massages my neck while I attempt &, |, <<, and >> operations.