whoa.

crazy adventurous weekend. like that's unusual.

no scars or broken hearts like last 4th of july. in fact, it was quite the opposite.

"it will be magical. dragonforce style."

i'm so glad i've reconnected with my old friends. we are the same insane souls trapped inside more decrepit bodies, with the exception of less alcohol, barbiturates, and hallucinogens to muddle our thoughts. it doesn't matter that i haven't returned any phone calls for years. there were reasons we were friends then. they laughed at my sarcasm, participated in my sadistic desire to entertain myself through self-destruction, and saw the superficiality that i caught in the majority of humanity. "us against the world" still applies. i still feel like i'm 14, albeit more responsible, and i'm happy they do too. hot tubs and explosives remind me so much of my youth; i wish every day included rivers and fire bombs. i've realized that the people who matter the most are the ones who do not judge you, no matter what you do. it's taken too long, and many broken plans, to ingrain that into my brain. i hope that i never let another human hurt me as much as mr. no fun pants did. i should have listened. heh. "mr. no fun pants"

and johnny's new songs... damn. how does he remember all of those humorous, yet heart-wrenching memories? i'm almost elated that i don't remember the majority of those times, until that fucker sings about them.

we have more animals at our house. three adorable little kittens and their mother were scheduled to be euthanized, so mag's brought them home instead of killing them. i don't blame her - they're beautiful. the runt is only 14 ounces; she fits into the palm of my hand. mags named them werewolf, frankenstein, elvira, and the mother is, of course, the mummy. it's nice to (partially) live someone that has just as much of a fucked up job - to come home and just look at someone and they know that all you need is a beer and some quiet. maybe a game of pool. and very possibly to get completely shitfaced. you don't dream about the dead things you've been poking when you're passed out.



f.y.i.: watch your drink at fred's speakeasy unless you want to get dosed. thanks to the crusty, scumbag punks for not trying to fuck the passed-out-girl. though, at least i wouldn't have remembered it.


and happy 30th, amanda.