or die in vegas. whatever. close enough.
my point is this, the greater Los Angeles Area, IS greater. it's great. simply teriff.
today i bought corn on the cob smothered in mayonnaise, parmesan cheese, and butter for a dollar, from a guy who doesn't know one drop of english. it was fucking delicious.
and that's what i'm talking about... not that there was some idiot selling me corn, but that the guy knew to sell me the corn when he did. how'd he know that i totally wanted corn right then, right at that moment? HOW???
LA told him. it's obvious.
and even though pac didn't technically die in LA, biggie DID. he died at the intersection in LA that you can see in the backround of the movie Big Lebowski when walter is telling the dude that he could score him a girls toe by 3 o'clock. and i don't know what that means as far as LA is concerned, so nevermind.
the no lap dances rule is kinda a bummer... but LA is totally still the best.
i don't know what it is, man. but like when i run out of beer, like last night, and resort to drinking shots of whatever's clever, i wake up to find myself on the bathroom floor.
i think it's because i take enough shots to make me sick.
why is it so hard to barf sometimes? you lay on your bed soaked in sweat, the room starts spinning, and your stomach feels like there's a mariachi band in there jamming on some la bamba shit or something... so you run to the bathroom in hopes of being able to say, "elvis has left the building," and can't barf.
toilets are like barf-kryptonite
and you're afraid to go too far from the toilet because there's still mariachi band member guys la bamba-ing their hearts out in your stomach.
"is that ice cold vinyl flooring in this bathroom?"
yes it is, and yes it was. it feels good on your drunken red face.
i beleive these are the contributing factors to why i find myself in such situations. and why you do sometimes too. i sure as fuck can't remember for reals so whatever.
hoo-ha is another blog i write for.
here i am just smoking my parliment lights and only have one beer that i already pounded, and i smoked all this dime bag of shwag that i bought off a sign walker.
the sign job has totally scked me in. i'm in so deep i need a straw to breath.
but fuck signs. signs signs signs... that's all i ever hear myself saying anymore. fuck a sign.
today after my cousin jenifer and i put out the last of our signs, i was gonna have her drive, and me drink the 22 of corona i had, while we whisk back to our homes. but it had been rolling around back there, i guess, and when i used my bic lighter to pry open the bottle cap, the shit went POP and it all came out firehose style. it was as if it transformed into champagne. and my truck and my sweats and shirt and everything got soaked. i was so pissed.
i guess it roled around back there more than i knew.
now my car smells like a frat party.
this was years ago when i was still friends with people i have long since cut out of the picture. and my at-the-time-best-friend-who-ended-getting-cutting-as-well had this girlfriend. and for some reason, i hated the shit out of this chick. she would get under my skin like no else, and snide remarks in her direction was like all i could do to not kill myself.
this chick and i had a mutual friend, and she had given this friend an old glass bong of hers. and the girl she gave the bong to put ice in it this one time (because icey BT's are the kindest), and it got a hole punched through the bubble part of the bong, ona count of the ice being like little rocks floating in there, and was deemed broken.
and i knew that our other mutual friend had access to all the right shit to fix it. patch that shit right up, and FIX the durned bong. i then recieve permission to take the BROKEN USELESS bong, and attepmt to make it useful once again.
this is where the drama begins.
i got off work about 1:30am and walked into the house of the guy who was gonna fix the shit, and that chick, the one who's bong it bleong to originally and who GAVE IT AWAY, starts bitching at me saying,
"what the fuck are you doing taking my shit around town to people's houses?!"
now two things must be made clear.
1. she did not own this bong anymore.
2. two words... BRO and KEN.
and i'll throw in 3. ...bitch!
so her and i start bickering. she's drunk, i just off work late and was mad for being sober, the perfect environment for lack of anger management.
one thing led to another. the fight esculated. and before long i was saying,
"FUCK YOU you STUPID FUCKING BITCH!"
i thought about it and realized, if i was ever gonna tell her how i REALLY feel, now was that time, and so i corrected myself.
"FUCK YOU you FAT STUPID FUCKING BITCH!!!"
everyone at the kickback shutup, looked at me double fisting the middle finger in her face, looked at her, and then looked down.
i was PISSED man. pissed enough to key her car. or spit on her. my alleged best friend put up his dukes like he wanted to punch me int he face, and i taunted his punk ass.
"c'mon, do it, i dare you, do IT"
he didn't... HAHAHHAH. faggggggggg...
anyways, after that i boned out, and had one of her best friends on the way to get done anti style. and it took years and their eventual break up for me and that one chick to become cool with eachother. wierd.
ok. so he has the same first name as me. as anyone who has read alllll of this blog will know. i hate people with my same name automatically. and he's this militant black guy who on the first time i met him, made me late for work because he was going off about how i should become a marine. got it so far?
so this one time while i was in between apartments living at mom's house, she went out of town leaving me and fuckwad to fend for ourselves without her to mediate.
i came home from serving tables at the chart house retaurant, really late too man... and fuckhead is STILL up watching tv. i decided i wasn't gonne let his snoopy ass prevent my usual off work duties. so i towel up the crack at the bottom of the door, open my window, pull the bong out from it's secret hiding place, blaze it up, and make a pathetic attempt to blow it out the window. wash, rinse, repeat.
i was halfway into my slack-jawed wall staring ritual i have, when i was jarred by pounding on my bedroom door...
"You're smoking REEFER in there i can smell it! OPEN THIS DOOR"
i said nothing of coarse. i thought maybe he'd get tired and go away. or i could crawl out the window. but he kept banging on my door, yelling his head off. he threatened to kick my ass even.
it was actually on the third time he said he was gonna beat me up that i lost it. first of all, this joker wasn't gonna beat up shit. he was past his prime, out of shape, and a total joke. so i threw open the door, and got right in his face (btw i was taller than his loser-ass) and told him,
"OH YEAH?! you think you can take me mother fucker, go ahead!"
i was heated, and talking shit, and had my finger pointed at him all in his face. where's mr. i'm-gonna-kick-your-ass NOW, eh? i called him out for being a wino, and a moocher, and was sooooooo pissed. what a fucking buzz kill.
in the end my mom kicked both our asses out of the house. but she had my back for punking Mr. Fuckass.
she ended up dating him for another year or two after... but at least him and i didn't speak to eachother now. it makes me feel like i won.
smelling my armpits
posting pictures of me in my underwear
picking my nose
the discovery chanel
the weather chanel
singing along to songs
making gonzo porn
getting nothing done
looking like a homeless guy
belittleing my family members
typos and misspellings
supporting the local police dept.
eating all my vegies
smoking cigarettes inside with the windows shut
being obscenley sarcastic
using chat sayings like, "brb" in verbal discussions
checking my stats
writing text messages
wearing the same clothes for... forever.
making ppl feel sorry for me
blogging about the most mundane shit ever
calling all my friends fag to their face
lying to myself
being passive aggressive
and looking at the poo before i flush.
budweiser breakfast, and bong hit buffet.
it's the smallest of pleasures in life that go un-noticed, and and un-appreciated. like peeling elmer's glue off your fingers, or sticking your head out the car window while going 80MPH. it feels like i'm letting all the good shit pass me by.
instead of sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away... i'll be like in buttfucked AZ, or asleep, or too hammered to know what i'm doing at all.
i'm an enigma to my friends. some are supportive of me, some have other advice they want me to follow and obey, but they ALL think i'm a mental case. i guess it's because i take so many chances with everything. i always just let it roll and hope i don't crap out. "c'mon 7"... like with the way i speed thru traffic, or how i let my car run on fumes before refeuling, ect ect ect
my problem is i have no routine. i stay up till 4 or 5am, i sleep all day, i waste money on perishables, and i hate it. i'm sick of it.
i've totally been lame and a homebody lately.
no, i have not cut back on the drinking and bong hitting... those are staples to my diet. but i have not gone out and partied up really at all.
sure sure, money has been tight. and i can't really afford to go out. but that never stopped me before.
it's a new era for me i spose. i'm not down with weekend-warrior-frat-party-going-meat-market-retards getting all testosteroney all over the place. i'm not down with waiting in line for a drink at the bar for 20 minutes. or places that actually have lines for the MEN'S room.
over priced drinks, steap cover charges, pushy incompetent valet guys waving their darth vador "park here please" light sword thingy at you, crooked cab driver guys, AND your wallet hemorrhaging money faster than richie rich during his first time at the tittie bar.
and shit man... i can't wait till i am bucks up again.
let go of your dreams....
let go of your dreams....
let go of your dreams....
and don't hold on, for they won't come true.
this is fantasy, i wanna see, your arms open
i'll run to you.
cuz i want to. stand in front of crowds
and say check 1 to you
ask why because it's my life and yeah oh so it's kinda fun too.
ment ill... not accidental i ment to do it of coarse
well it's the good and hard times
even the writer block rhymes
it will all work out in the end
is what i heard
thru the grape vine.
but i might mind, till i go crazy, and have to write all about
the strange things that ran thru my mind
at night. and then excite
but that's ok i'd rather refuse it than have to deal with the world
do to much and at once and all over i have hurled
up my stress, frustrations and all that good stuff.
i was wondering not pludering if you've had enough tuff
i'm not caring why that dickhead over there is staring
cuz while he stares glaring my life i am preparing
and with you i'm sharing just a little piece of my mind
i dug deep in my skull, but i wasn't that hard to find
but it's hard to find the wuestions that are at hand
why does life demand to give the upper hand to the rich man
but not the white man, not the black man, not even jazz hands
"oh uhh, are you done with that? can i wrap that up in a sran?"
hold on to your dreams...
hold on to your dreams...
hold on to your dreams...
and don't let nobody tell you to let go.
i had a dream last night, the world would soon be mine.
i awoke the next morning to find
that it wasn't all in my mind
like a child who's got his own, i felt as if the gods have blessed me,
and all the troubles i had before
was only a tempt to test me.
but let me, be really candid with my feelings
i don't like material things, although they may be appealing.
to the eye, mind, optical nerve was larger than my wallet size
thus... i use my power to analyze
the life cycle, to make my night and day dreams come true
as i wish upon a star or two
this state of mind will turn from blue,
to happy days, i praise those who learned me more than face value
the underlying spyings that the autoblack knows exactly how you feel
i reached the mountain top and i don't plan to return yet.
i have seen the summer sun set so softly in the serene scenery.
can it be? my hopes an aspirations come real.
i don't have one anymore, and i'm very sad about that.
to my old, 7 ply, powell peralta, mike mcgill, long version... with alva wheels, german bearings, and independant trucks...
i miss you, pal.
you can never even get a board like that again. maybe you could get the deck... but they don't make griptape that wide anymore. they definitely don't make german bearings anymore. and those wheels... well, they don't make any of the things that that board had.
and i hate long boards like sector 9's... they're too
if i had my old board, which was of MANY things lost during my canadian adventures, i'd book it outside and straight up ROLL. maybe bomb some hills. and basically just appreciate the fuck out of my useless wooden toy for all the happiness it brings me.
it's funny how hard times are no big deal after enough gin.
funny like wierd, not funny like "haha".
for me it's so hard NOT to rob places. like how easy is that? just cruise in to the right place with a gun, and walk with a few thousand bucks.
i wouldn't make it a career... just more like a hobby.
7-11's, circle k's, quickie mart's, am-pm's...
or what about straight up robbing people? like rich dudes on the way to their car from the mall.
or home invasion robberies...
it makes me wish i wasn't so lazy. fucking-A.... i'm a WOP, crime runs in my family.
my dad is a crook, i have crook cousins, crook aunts and uncles.
even my sisters done time.
to hell with it... i know i'm too damn stoned all day to not fuck it all up and get caught.
but it looks so easy in the movies...
and everything seems like it's gonna work out ...whatta load off
i just have to not buy one thing from now till like 2005.
i am in a desperate situation. i have debt. collectors are mailing me threatening things.
i owe money all over town.
if i don't come up with a way to get/borrow the right ammount of cash, i'm fucked.
please email me, and i'll give you a mailing address to send any donations that i can get.
brother can you spare a dime? or at least a dime sack??
update 3:44pm.... noone has emailed me at all. i need money man, i'll sell my belongings, i'll steal, i'll do what i have to.
maybe it's time i just give in and become a male stripper.
or selling naked photos of myself thru the internet.
the bill collectors or knocking on the door as we speak.
ooops nevermind. that was my neighbor. she's a cougar. all my neighbors are cougars. aka, older women who crunch on younger men.
maybe i could exploit the cougar factor into some cash... anyone got golddigging skills?
i swear i'm not always this retarded.
but i just broke my bunny ears for my tv and was all pissed, when i plugged in the cable wire coming in, and learned it's hooked up to a huge ass attenna on the roof.
so now instead of only getting a fuzzy ass chanel 4... i get 2 thru 13.
now i'm like "fuck cable, cuz i don't even care about tv enough to bother. i was only gonna do it to get internet too.
now i'll just get a hard-line phone and whip out the dsl.
bought a bed too, man. the wrong size mattress for my existing boxspring and bedframe. but fuck it, being a stoner has it's obvious drawbacks, like memory loss. and queen sized is cooler than full any day of the week.
it's out of control how an apartment can go from "feels kinda lame" to "feels like home" by just adding stuff. a couch and a tv was too minimalist, i know this now.
i even almost bought a fern...
yessir. and stoned out of my mind.
i have the weekend off, basically. CAN I GET A "FUCK YES"
the goal is to make the redondocondo look like someone actually lives there. i want it to feel homey, not homie.
maybe a lamp? or a bed? or groceries? nahhhh....
i need to stock the liquer cabnet... capt. morgans, stoli, patron, jack daniels, and whatever else that gets you shitty.
but i sorta want a bed.
fuck it i'm just gonna hit up target and buy a lamp.
the rest of the cash goes to weed.
at least now that i'm rocking california's finest. deadly green speers, frosty with illa to the thrilla qualities. ahhh...
arizona's shwag was good enuff though... once we got the seeds out. and plus we were desperate out there in that stupidly-hot place we found ourselves.
but it's allll, "fuck it till tomorrow..." styles.
then my dumbass hits up Casa Palida and forgets that if you eat too much mexican food, you can barely move or talk or anything after.
now i'm gonna smoke a million cigarettes at a time, and laugh like a mad scientist into the sky.
or maybe howl like i'm a wolf-man.
whitey moved to santa cruz today and i tricd to steal his conch shell... i'd rock the hizzouse with that shit. all you lord of the flies piggy motherfuckers would be coming corroct. ain't no half steppin...
whitey ended up rolling with me on the sign job and when riley, the old dude, was slumped over in a sweaty mess in my back seat, we knew shit had hit the fan. diabetic shock, i guess. (aka, the dude needs to eat like a snickers bar, or drink a coke.)
so me and whitey are thinking: do we dump his ass behind the first circle k that we find and poor a 40 of king cobra over his head so it looks like he relapsed? do we call 911? do we try and take his ass back to his halfway house place? should we check his pulse?
we ended up buying some pop and trying to slap his face to wake his ass up to drink the vanilla coke.
in the end, everythings fine, and he's all good now, and everyone's busy forgetting about it. but i DO feel bad.. like i whored him out too hard, or like i should have been easier on him. but FUCK, that's the gig... that's why "helper" is a shitty position. i got treated like a slave, now it's his turn. he's just not cut out for this shit.
so to top it all off... he got fired.
sucks to be riley...
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