Dead Birds Don't Sing

Word to Jacqueline, it's always better on holiday. On some altruistic shit, I truly believe I can make others happier when I'm away from the grind. But what used to count most (re: happiness) appears to count a little less these days. Like sands/asterixes through the fucking hourglass*.

(I'm drunk; that makes no sense; but my spaelling is prefect.)

I gotta return to "work" on Monday.

Still, I'm all about bringing joy -- often in the form of ejaculate -- unto others. Word to Santa Claus and ORIGINAL ALL MALT BEER FOR THE BEST MOMENTS IN LIFE, LET YOURSELF GO.

Indeed.

All things good must etc., tomorrow I have to discontinue bringing happiness to few and start bringing it to a few more. A few more who can't sing like you sing, who can't appreciate the starch flavor of Fruit Loops like you can. I'm going to punch a cop.

Word to Jimmy, Psychedelic Drunkeness shall end.

But redundancy will still reign.

I'm going to throw up now.

(Then punch a cop)

IDJ smiles.


* Fuck the allure of mystery, I was offered the job of a lifetime, aka a starring role in Canadian Gigalo (IN BUNDANG!!). Why I turned the part down, I fear, will forever haunt me. Like cartons of milk and freeze-dried astronaut rations, relationships have a varying shelf life. But whoring oneself to lonely ajummas is a memory that would last forever. In my own unique way, I pulled a Vince Carter graduation ceremony-sized boner. Still, I made the right decision. Right? Right??!!