that if you’ve been cleared for weekends, you’re still invited. I’m up to my everything in stuff to do, and the more of us there are, the more stuff we cover. I don’t care. Fuck you. Your worst stuff is better than my best. Asshole.
Bite me, please.
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Bite me, please.
How hard? ;)
I’m finishing a long essay, but probably not today. Which is just as well, as I may send it to JG for editorial input.
Huh?
I was going to post something, but now I’m insulted. So, fuck you.
Pablo, is this the new rightie motivational stance? Post anyway; I’ll hang out witcha.
Funny thing. I was just excavating a lode of stuff I wrote back when I hadn’t yet realized I wasn’t God’s gift to the printed word.
But that stuff would be going up on my site. Someday.
The beginning of the end.
or is it beginining —
Sorry, Pablo. She made me stack wood again, yesterday, when I was supposed to have been working up a syllabus. Makes me cranky.
“Your worst stuff is better than my best. Asshole.”
Have you ever read my stuff? It’s like, “Hey, where can I get a good burger in Dulles?” or “Wow there’s a lot of fat girls in O’Hare.” and now that I can’t post from my Blackberry, you won’t even get that. So you’re better than me. Buttmunch.