Sometimes I don't give a fuck a little too much. For instance, last night night my suit was so dirty it was sticky. Sticky. Sticky is not an acceptable type of dirty, well, lemme back up, sticky on the outside, maybe down on the back of the leg or on the back of the arm maybe could work cuz it'd eventually pick up enough lint to de-stickify itself, like when you rip the duct tape off the cat, but sticky on the inside, in the thigh, armpit and ball sack areas ain't rad. When one's baggyish pants are clinging to one's balls like fly paper, the only statement being made is "watch out for pus!"
It wasn't completely my fault, although it was my idea to take the motorhome off road and race through the mud and trees, it was most certainly NOT my idea to drive through the garbage dump, that part was an accident. It came out of nowhere. Since when are garbage dumps filled with ninety percent moldy fruit anyway? When I was a kid you could find a bikes and radios at the dump, now it's all just fucking broccoli and bad meat.
Fucking recycling wrecked the dump.
Also, whose bright idea was it to have the outdoor summer concert series next to the dump anyway?
So yeah, my balls were sticking to my suit and I was very very dirty and not feeling at all fantastic about it but the only place I had to look for a new suit was the dump house at the edge of the dump where they kept all the keepable shit the dump lady who works there finds on her daily dump dives so all of that stuff in there was dirty as fuck too and nothing matched. Plus she was rushing me because she was closing the dump to go to the show. I hate being rushed. I like to say dump. Dump. Say it. Dump.
Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that I could tell all you people who call yourselves my "friends" were acting aloof and distant because my sticky pants situation and I forgive you for that. I can't really blame you, I didn't want to sit next to me either, but you didn't have to make it so obvious by clapping and over doing it when I returned with the non-stick gold pajamas.
Have some class people.
Oh yeah, and to my former roommate with the large collection of gigantic books. Stop it. Nobody is impressed. Gigantic books are dumb, you can't even turn the page without crinklesville city.
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