05/11/2005 - 1:30 a.m. | problems

It is not good when I read Tucker Max stories because they make me want to drink more and do more ridiculous shit. It is a good thing I do not know how to talk to girls, drunk or sober. It is a good thing that I know very few girls, as I would probably try anyway then. Damn stories. I blame the stories. At this point, even whoring myself out to dudes seems all right, considering it would provide me with a) cash and b) ego stroking. I can't help it I am more attractive to the same sex, can I? I am almost daring the police to come back so that I can wow them with my legal knowledge, fourth amendment and whatnot. Con-Air is almost too good of a movie, I decided. It should not be allowed, but here it is anyway. When the cops did come, Smacko hid in my closet with the laundry hamper on his lap. He looked pretty silly. Urine bombs were only half a good idea by then. I will not discount them fully.

YOU WRITE SINFUL THINGS IN YOUR DIARY