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8/19/2003

Dammit. That story I asked to be read didn't really take place in the South. That ruined my trifecta that I thought I had with the piece. Who the hell cares about South Windsor, Connecticut skanks? I don't. They're just leftovers from the plethora of Kennedy skank bangings over the past few decades. "Would you say I have a plethora of skank bangings?" "Si, John, I would say you have a plethora" "Ted, do you know what a plethora is?"
I don't want blue blood hoochies, I require my trash pure Southern. PBR blooded. Read the story if you want, but it's ruined for me because I can't imagine her screaming "Daddy paid for this dress; you ain't my Daddy" no more. Dammit. She even jumped on the hood of a car and everything.
I'm all alone. Not figuratively, literally. I'm alone and sober. This can't last long. A sober B and an entire night alone don't mix well. Like oil and vodka. Mmmm, oil and vodka. I think we have some olive oil in the pantry and the liquor store doesn't close until 9. Boredom and sobriety problem solved, people. Nothing more to say.
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