Bolt the Super Dog.

I always start off a blog with the mild shock that I have a blog. I think people read it too. They say they do but part of me knows.  Part of me knows that if they really read it they wouldn’t say anything to me ever again.  They would also know things about me I don’t really want them to know.  Like that I have horrible diarrhea from my steady diet of Cheese Nips and Kool-aid.  Its probably not the best idea, but I’ve gotten a lot of reading done.

Cheese compressors. Thats how.

I now own a bed.  Like a frame with a mattress and sheets and a pillow and shit.  I cant remember the last time I slept in a real bed.  I think It was a couple of days ago but I don’t really remember.

This is the dick that I drew. Its on your computer. My Dick is on your computer.

That reminds me though. I met this girl.  The “not remembering” not the “bed” thing.   I met this girl right, I really liked her she was pretty cool.  It wasn’t the fact that she gave me 2 pills that made the next 3 days a blur.  Or it wasn’t that she was genuinely one of those people that is interesting to be around.

No the thing that set this person apart in my mind was that she told me something no one has ever told me before.   She told me something I’ve never actually been told and then asked if I wanted to chug from her bottle of vodka and sent me off to drive home.

I think she was full of shit, but its the thought that counts.

It was nice to hear it and it made me hate you,  each and every one of you that has never told me I was shit.  Ya’ll bitches be slacken, and It’s kinda important for me.  I feel am so delusional that if you don’t tell me, how will I know.

can you tell I'm getting lazy?

I feel like I should say more but I feel a lot of things. I always cry at the end of Pixar movies.  I don’t why.  Bolt the fucking Super dog.  Cried like a bitch.  I want you to picture that next time you have sex.

You'll think of me while making sexy time, You kinky bastard.

Your welcome.