As I stare in the corner, at the plant, and continue to drink my cheap wine, as my greasy forehead undoubtedly reflects the pathos emanating off of the shattered iPad screen in my lap, currently viewing, my Facebook page.
What is important to you. How do you feel about being Canadian. Do you lie everyday. How drunk are you on average.
Do you ever just feel so completely, fucking insane, thaaaaaaaat your roommate has finally caught on. That you are bombed the night before orientation.
That you thought making a fucking gazpacho, sepertingthe red and yellow tomatoes, and the herbs and cucumbers, and layering it in a fucking bowl would look anything other that some fucking hippy rastefarianbullshit. As your sous chef looks on, sadly acknowledging that it tastes amazing but looks like some sixteen year old threw up his bong water soaked dreams in a bowl and tried to pass it off for cold soap. ...... I dont know about you guys but labour day weekend is officially over and I am getting wasted to celebrate.
The last time you have felt something this prolific, ou were sitting in an empty tub in a motel overlooking the shitty part of okay again lake, drunk, fully clothed, writhing aroun like a fish whilst your friends took pictures and pretended along with you that this whole situation was hilarious.
Please stop embarrassing yourself.
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