The Mighty Kong-Down: 2 days!
WHOO!
I'm seventy times more excited than I should be about a giant stinky monkey.
Especially after Wag The Movie wagged the 1976 version last night -- which led to about three hours of sleep for me. I still wonder if the mics picked up Donald puking in the background.
I've always wondered how someone like Pete Doherty:
Somehow ends up dating whomever he wants, while many a man on the planet who aren't Pete Doherty have to stumble across luck and meet the right, perfect woman, or settle for the worst match imaginable.
It's strange. Is a guitar that much of an aphrodisiac?
***
No one, period, has responded to my invitations to see Kong. Not even my old co-worker, who I haven't seen since... probably September.
I just don't want to enjoy this damn fine thing alone.
Vaguery is an annoyance that too many people use these days. It leaves you conflicted inside. It's always like: am I a creep? Am I okay? What the fuck does that smile mean? Etc., etc.
I haven't done Christmas shopping yet. I lack the funds. My paycheck this Thursday shall be rushed into the bank, where it will be spewed out in the forms of silly wrapped gifts that hopefully friends enjoy and do not return.
Wow. This is a rambling weird entry. Enjoy with a hot cup of noodle soup. It'll make it a little better, I assure you.
Those who actually read my journals more than once in a great while will recall the entry about the girl at my job. The pregnant firecracker. The story only gets more and more warped and tipsy. When someone's eyes follow you behind your back (which we all know occurs, we always feel them peering like horrible laser sights from a Terminator), but the tongue on that woman's like a fucking bullet when she wants it to be. I don't know whether to like it or not.
I suppose it'll all continue on and on.
WHOO!
I'm seventy times more excited than I should be about a giant stinky monkey.
Especially after Wag The Movie wagged the 1976 version last night -- which led to about three hours of sleep for me. I still wonder if the mics picked up Donald puking in the background.
I've always wondered how someone like Pete Doherty:
Somehow ends up dating whomever he wants, while many a man on the planet who aren't Pete Doherty have to stumble across luck and meet the right, perfect woman, or settle for the worst match imaginable.
It's strange. Is a guitar that much of an aphrodisiac?
***
No one, period, has responded to my invitations to see Kong. Not even my old co-worker, who I haven't seen since... probably September.
I just don't want to enjoy this damn fine thing alone.
Vaguery is an annoyance that too many people use these days. It leaves you conflicted inside. It's always like: am I a creep? Am I okay? What the fuck does that smile mean? Etc., etc.
I haven't done Christmas shopping yet. I lack the funds. My paycheck this Thursday shall be rushed into the bank, where it will be spewed out in the forms of silly wrapped gifts that hopefully friends enjoy and do not return.
Wow. This is a rambling weird entry. Enjoy with a hot cup of noodle soup. It'll make it a little better, I assure you.
Those who actually read my journals more than once in a great while will recall the entry about the girl at my job. The pregnant firecracker. The story only gets more and more warped and tipsy. When someone's eyes follow you behind your back (which we all know occurs, we always feel them peering like horrible laser sights from a Terminator), but the tongue on that woman's like a fucking bullet when she wants it to be. I don't know whether to like it or not.
I suppose it'll all continue on and on.
kiley:
that would require way too much work. and i'm the laziest motherfucker i know.