06/17/2004 - 3:27 a.m. | and i used to be kind of weird about this

And now, Smash Mouth:

God damn mega superstars. I don't think I can handle that much awesome. Shelly said that my more recent entries (the last one especially) have really shown my growth as a writer. Something about confidence, heatstroke, blah blah blah. My theory is that she only likes them because they are less frequent. HA! Or I guess because I am less overtly emo now. Hmm. Well, we'll show her! This'll drop my batting average a nice little bit.

Guess how many little shitty black snake pellets I have now? 108! One hundred and eight to be put in a garbage can, doused in lighter fluid, and lit with some sort of torch. I want a 3 foot wide black ash snake, and I will not be happy until that happens. The Queen herself could offer me fellatio, and I would say, "Swell [Why do you think she's Queen after all?], but first go make me giant ash snake." Where did I get them? Some gas station in Whothefucknknows. I also got some coffee, which was a very, very stupid idea because now I am so, so tired, and there's no chance of me sleeping at all. But, dreams are getting deadly again. Last night, I was in a tornado. Well, the path of one I mean. Everyone around me was being killed by flying debris, and I knew the only reason I continued to live was because I was the one having the dream, and you're not allowed to die, I don't think. Do you think that's what people who survive real disasters think? I bet you'd sort of go crazy. Anyway, I need to get some

...permanent markers. You're not even trying anymore. I bet you'd like to know about the last three days, hmm? I'm just guessing it was three - maybe it's been more. Anyway, long story short is I got my prostitute's license in Nevada, and I've been making a killing attracting slightly chubby girls with red hair (Despite my protestations, they seem to be "my type") and expertly performing oral sex on them, followed by inadequate intercourse with my large penis. For money. And stupid free shit like silk shirts and smelly cologne. When the bitches leave, I pour the cologne on the shirts and light it on fire, doing some sort of wardance I may have picked up on my Vision Quest. I don't like the job, really, but a few lines of coke or whatever that is I've been smelling (Pixy Stix??), and I can usually mentally replace the fuckee with someone far more fuckable. e.g. Margaret Thatcher, your mom, the picture of the dryad in the Monster Manual. Anyway, I used the money to buy like 6 old school bicycles with the coaster brakes and all and put them all in this vault near the dumpster out back. All 6 were gone the next morning. Vince Vaughn is prime suspect - he knows how much I like him. It's called creative writing. I don't really like doing it, but the truth will have to wait.