I'll admit it. You got me. i'm faking it. I don;'t love Machoopa and I'm not this haphazardly sad, I'll admit that I am incompetent of the unforgivable sins of incompetence, idiocy, and other shit ass fuck hole sins. I'm too busy living for such wastelands.
Some folks tell me I'm sad. I tell them life's hard without a vested interest. They don;t understand. Though I drooled until I was 21 I still feel like a child prodigy. My past keeps following me and mucking up my way.
I work at Social Sciences Library. My name is Rita. For lunch I eat the salt off my arms for sustenance.
I don't believe in Randy Moss or postage stamp. I don;t believe that anything should try to be extraordinary. That is why Randy or stamos are extra-super -good. They don't strain to be relevant. They simply don't fit the mold. These are the same reasons people eat viatnemese food, because it conjures up notions of Warhol. The thing about the amazing is that it doesn't come forth from preparation, intellect, or SMARTS. The only source of such phenomenon is instinct. How do you convince some one that they are incredible within six days? Trust yourself, honky...
Mom, I love you. you re the dog to my hurricane. If I was Jimmy Carter I qould build you a house without pity. The world is wowing me on every front and it is edging on an affront but from here on out I will embrace the fact that I am not here to be wower. I am simply here to watch the amazing happen. When are Durant and Melo facing off? I need something to believe in. My ideas are boring. The friendships are stagnant. I don't own a blender. '
My attitude might be terrible but I love every moment.
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