best laid plans, my friends.

let me give you a little tip about life, boys. dont tell a girl who likes having sex with you — a lot — that youre going to sleep over at her house and not have sex with her.

dont believe her when she says shes on the rag.

dont bring over your laundry, dont drink her wine, dont let her turn up the heat, dont dare her to wear something sexy, dont tell her that her lips look good shining in the candlelight, dont think that her roommate not being around doenst mean anything

and dont think that youre not going to get any even though youre trying to stay pent up for the dumbest novel ever.

and after she pulls out every secret weapon, dont hit the control > C buttons on her G4 so as to copy your sex book chapter post into your novel before you hit post+publish

because macintosh sux and control > C apparently means “take this chapter and dispose of it motherfucker… forever.”

and here i used to like apple.

and here i thought it would be ok to write anywhere else other than in chopper one or the friendly confines of my walk-in closet at my bachelor pad. but oh i was wrong.

so wrong.

im wrong about everything.

thats the main reason i put the disclaimer up there a long time ago, and why i dont preach on sundays, and why i dont manage the cubs.

id be doubling stealing all the time, telling people the bible says you can smoke weed, and thinking i can blog from just any old damn where.

i dont know shit.

thats why the big wigs dont hire my black ass. they know.

showed the novel to the temptress last night.

she said it was poetry.

maybe thats why its taking so f’ing long.

i havent written a poem in forever.

the cub reporter lost his house in the fire + the southpaw + drop stones

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