Tag Archives: amazing

Pulling Everything Together


So there I was. With a week to impress a very disappointed landlord. I had almost no resources and I reached out to my group of friends who had experienced the HoG on the same level I had. Immediately, I had responses. An overflow of them, actually. Paint, tools, cleaning parties, I had everything I needed. Diablo spent the last of his budget on some paint that would cover stains (particularly sharpie) and I got to work. We cleared out the living room and started cleaning up the beer cans.

My dear friend Liza came over with her camera and photographed a few things before we totally started fixing it up. Liza is a photographer, videographer, model, poet, and a whole bunch of other things, too. She is one of the most lovely human beings that I know and I’m sure there will be a blog post dedicated to her at some point.

Four hours of cleaning and scrubbing later, all of the furniture was either in the kitchen or on the lawn and I had begun painting over the words and images that had helped define all of us over the course of two months.It was arduous – and heartbreaking. It was the first real symbol of us having to move on from the house. Of course, part of me had been waiting for this for weeks, and the other part of me was scared and never wanted it to end.

We managed to get enough paint to re-vamp the entire house, and I started, well, re-vamping. I planned a cleaning party and had a decent turn-out. With the help of twenty people, we got the first coat of actual white paint on the living room walls. We got the lawn mowed and the beehives on the roof taken care of and the old mattress and couches burned.

The next day, Docken (the other room mate) and our mutual friend Khiara did some hardcore cleaning. I turned the trash room into a porch. The lawn was fixed, the trash room was gone, and I had painted some nice color on the living room, effectively finishing that project. In a week, we took down the entire downstairs and outside.

Weeds trimmed, flowerbeds weeded, trash hauled away, and a fresh coat of paint on all of the walls except for the bathroom, which would get taken care of later. The gutters were spotless, and so I guess we weren’t quite ‘gutter punks’ anymore, unless you count the person who actually climbed around on the roof like a drunken monkey getting all of the punk out of the gutter.

We even scouted the neighborhood and discovered a beautiful sofa, recliner, and desk that were in almost perfect condition to move into the freshly painted house. We carried these items a few blocks and successfully moved them in that night. The living room looked like something out of a country living magazine – as long as you disregarded the still-tarnished floor.

The landlord arrived the next Tuesday. Despite the fact that there was still large amounts of work to do on the house, we got the reaction we were looking for. Her eyes lit up the second she stepped out of her car. Of course, it wasn’t perfect. It will take a couple of years for the lawn to totally regrow and the integrity of the roof after supporting so many bodies will never be quite the same.

She entered the living room and almost gasped. Her joy at the changes showed clearly on her face as she toured the lower half of the house. No more trash room. No more stink of beer and adolescence. A well thought-out color scheme. Semi-gloss paint instead of matte in the kitchen for easier cleaning and less gruesome grease stains. Turning the corner to head upstairs, I had to stop her. I informed her that a week is a very small amount of time to get anything done, and the only fixing that had been done on the upstairs was a quick cleanup job. The walls leading up the stairs had a fresh coat of light green paint and we were busy getting the right parts to re-install the banisters (definitely a story to tell later).

It was coming along, but there’s only so much you can do. She nodded and expressed her approval of what had been done, giving us more time to keep fixing the house. The end of July was coming up, though, and I had received news from my girlfriend that she and her faithful troupe of road dogs were heading north from Iowa. Soon, it would be time for me to leave.

Funny how, in theory, packing a bag and walking out a door is easier than fixing an entire house.

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The Angry Landlord and the Quick Save


I think it’s time to talk about the owner of the house I was living in at the time, because this is a very important part of the story, and an inspiring one. Diablo’s cousin, who owned the house, had let him rent it for 300 a month with the agreement that he would fix a couple of little things to make the entire house sellable.

Now, I love my dear Diablo, but he is irresponsible to an extreme, and he managed to pull me into that irresponsibility. When I arrived at the house for the first party, it was in kind of bad shape. The carpet in the living room had been ripped out, revealing ugly, damaged floorboards. The living room walls were covered in various colors of paint and small amounts of graffiti. The carpets upstairs had been slightly tarnished. There was a room specifically for trash that smelled like, well, the inside of a dumpster.

By the time mid-July rolled around, we had only damaged the house more. The shower had been broken, the living room walls were covered in sharpie – hundreds of phone numbers, drawings, and tags that gave the HoG its appeal. For us, it was beautiful. An entire room filled with stunning imagery and contact information from some of the most creative, wonderful people we had ever met. A wall dedicated to a dramatic day-by-day, play-by-play of the house. The tags had started to spread into the kitchen. The trash room was overflowing. The upstairs carpets were done for. The walls that hadn’t been tarnished by sharpie had been marked by dirty, oily hands and blood.

Blood – the entry way to the stairs leading to the bedrooms had been tagged with someone’s blood at a party that got a little too out of hand. ‘Fuck life’ was smeared across the previously untouched wall in an angsty scrawl. Outside, there were couches, chairs, and a mattress soiling the lawn. The vines had overgrown, the grass had been torn up by the feet of hundreds of little punks, and the flowerbeds were in a state of weedy disrepair.

Screens had been busted out of windows, the electricity had gone out in one upstairs room, muddy boot-steps led out a window and onto the roof.

Beer cans and cigarette butts lay strewn as far as the eye could see, piled creatively in flower pots and stacked in pyramids wherever there was free space. Broken bottles lay scattered on the overgrown back walk, the roof was covered in an assortment of used condoms, random snacks, blankets, and other waste products. A doggie chew-toy hung over the stoop from a gutter, and the front door no longer possessed a door handle.

We had become the true epitome of punk house. Warm, flat beer, people who smelled bad, and blood-smeared walls. Our stink defined the neighborhood, put a new spin on ‘you smell good’ and invited trouble we could not have imagined when we first started. We saw it all as a creative mess, a natural disaster, the perfect aesthetic. The landlord saw it a little differently. Phrases that come to mind immediately are ‘terrible’, ‘oh my god what happened to my house’ and ‘oh no no no no no no no NO’.

This incredible woman who had been so kind to let Diablo stay in that house was in the business of flipping properties and using the money to build schools. By trashing the house, we were, effectively, stealing opportunities for education from young minds. I had no idea, and neither did she. We had lived by the subconscious vibe of ‘what we don’t know won’t hurt us’, but upon her arrival, we changed our tune to ‘what have we done, we’ve made fools of everyone’.

We had only gotten the opportunity to screw things up so royally because she had been gone for a couple of months and wasn’t regularly checking up on the house. She had no idea anything had happened and she was under the impression that only Diablo lived there. She was in for a surprise. At the time she returned, Diablo had adopted not one but two room mates that were not paying rent and effectively draining the pockets of society.

She would not come to know this. Her arrival at the house was a dramatic one. As I washed dishes and Diablo played Super Smash, we heard a knock on the door. Dun dun dun, our doom was fast approaching. Diablo stood and went to check who it was, immediately freezing up and freaking out.

“Do not tell her you live here. Say you’re visiting.” He hurriedly whispered as a sense of dread fell over the entire house and at least three nearby neighborhoods.

A quick salute, a calming breath, and the sound of a door opening later, we were in big trouble. Tears filled her eyes as she got a first-hand look at what atrocities teenagers given responsibility were capable of. She toured the house and then took a moment to compose herself before expressing her anger, disappointment, and worry to Diablo. She was tempted to kick him out on the spot, black-list him to the rest of his family, even have his car sold to pay for damages.

He was incapable of defending himself or calming her down. it was time for someone to step in.

“Hey, I know you have no idea who I am, but I’m a close friend of Diablo’s, and I came over to help him out cleaning up. I have to take some responsibility for the mess in the first place, but trust me when I say that I have been over here a lot helping to reign the dear boy in. I have come to see this house as a safe place, and many others have, too, so I am willing to put in work to make you happy and allow him to keep the house.”

Her face relaxed slightly. I went on to tell her that my father had trained me to be a house painter, that there were many people who cared about the house, and that we would invest time and effort into making it sellable once again. The guarded look on her face and her hesitation to trust a stranger were overcome by a realization of how deep of a hole she would be in if she didn’t accept a little bit of help.

She decided to give HoG a chance. She decided to give me a chance. She knew Diablo would be going out of town that weekend and she asked if I could house-sit for a few days, which would give me more time to help clean up. I accepted, and we were off on the biggest cleaning mission I had ever agreed to – and the cleaning of my childhood room was no joke.

I had a week to prove to her that I could make the house a good place again. Just one week to make a drastic change that would determine the fate of the House of God.

I was ready.

Explanations and ‘The House of God’


So there I was, living in a party house in St Paul that got more and more popular by the day. I was receiving Facebook messages from friends of friends of friends asking if they could attend one of my parties. Finally, the hopes and dreams of fifteen year-old Telea had been accomplished. I was the host and resident of one of the most popular party houses in the Twin Cities, and I was gaining rapport by hour.

Now, time for an explanation:

When I initially became homeless on June 2nd, I had a cute, short,  train-hopping girlfriend who I had last seen about a week and a half before I was kicked out. As soon as I got kicked out, I asked her if she would come back to the Twin Cities to take me train hopping. Her response was awesome, to say the least. She got so incredibly excited, and promised to be back by the start of July.

So, my stay at Diablo’s house was, indeed, just supposed to be a very short while. We initially settled on three weeks, but when my girlfriend kept getting delayed, it became an open-ended departure from the house. Basically: “Stay as long as you want, don’t break much, and throw good parties.”

I was pretty sure I could handle that. In our first 30 days of solid parties, we threw FOUR big parties, (and 26 parties of varying sizes), once every weekend up to the weekend of July 6th. The first one was a spur-of-the-moment decision that just so happened to work out well. The second was scheduled over Pride Weekend, the third was basically a Pride Afterparty (as in ‘The-Weekend-After-Pride-Party) and the fourth was a party celebrating 30 days of Partying.

On Pride weekend, my friends Alice and Xaundra went with me to the festival before the big party showdown. On our way to Loring Park, we ran into a handsome Dirty Kid sitting shirtless on Nicollet Ave, playing a banjo. We decided to say hello, and found out his name was Joe and that he was working in Wisconsin on an organic farm for the summer. He told us he usually rubber tramped it around the country in a big old van. We parted ways, hoping to see him again at Pride.

The second we walked into the park, it started pouring rain. Just a violent downpour that soaked us to the bone in 0.5 seconds. We took cover under the nearest tree, and so did our dirty friend Joe. He noticed that I had a Ukulele, and I played him a song. After a couple more minutes, Xaundra and Alice decided to go back to the house early instead of braving the rain, and we promptly invited Joe to come to the party, giving him two phone numbers to contact should he decide to make an appearance. Spoiler alert: he did (which is why that story was important at all).

Alice and Xaundra headed home, taking my Ukulele with them, and I continued through the pouring rain of Pride to meet some cute people and hang out. Within fifteen minutes, the rain had subsided, and while the park was soaked (and partially flooded), the sun AND the people came back out to celebrate.

Joe (later renamed James Franco to avoid confusion with the fifty thousand other Joe’s I know – and because he resembled a young, dirty James Franco) was not the only one who got adopted by the house from Pride. With the weather putting a damper on Pride Weekend, our party got bumped to five pm instead of ten pm. At five pm, I was arriving at the house with about five people I knew and thirty people I had found at Pride.

This party was one that went down in the history of the house. Over two hundred people showed up. There was glitter, laughter, and alcohol EVERYWHERE. It was the party where I discovered that my Ukulele had been left at a bus stop in pouring rain confusion. It was the party where everyone came together in a community like one we hadn’t seen before. It was the first party I stayed totally sober for because of the overwhelming number of people showing up, marking the weekend before as the last party I got drunk at – for the rest of the summer. But most importantly of all, this was the party that gave our house its name.

The House of God.

Explanation time:

At previous slightly-rowdy parties, we told party-goers that when they went outside to smoke a cigarette, they should always yell ‘Glory Hallelujah’ or ‘Amen’ so that the neighbors wouldn’t suspect a party. Rather, they would think it was a rowdy religious gathering. This joke, thought up because we lived across the street from a church and a sober house, ended up giving our house its name that night.

Furthermore, the previous weekend, someone had spray-painted ‘House of Gold’ right over our doorway.

The kind people at the church, Kandra and Rob, a beautiful couple who were planning to get married that October, LOVED us. Rob was the pastor of the church, and Kandra was the super-sweet, wonderful Fiance. Diablo and I made a habit of visiting the church for the good company and the good acoustics (and the semi-exclusive ‘Breakfast in the Basement’ every Tuesday morning – House of God and Church only). They walked into the party FEARLESSLY while it was in full swing to bring all of the party-goers bread, hummus, fresh fruits and veggies, and a huge bowl of delicious pasta salad.

A drunken person, hearing about this, exclaimed that it really WAS a house of god, having not seen that extra letter ‘L’ in the tag job. It was perfect. With sharpies in hand, we promptly fixed what we later called ‘the biggest spelling error of the month’ and named our house ‘House of God’, later to be fondly referred to as the ‘HoG’.

What was even more amazing was that Church (previously known as Kandra and Rob) loved the name. They saw us as a form of missionaries. We were giving all we had to the people, letting people crash at our house, and providing a safe spot for people to be any hour of the day, any day of the week. Regardless of the fact that we allowed alcohol, drugs, and sex to happen in the house on a regular basis, we were thought of by Church as true followers of the lord. They claimed Jesus would be proud to walk with us, and promptly started referring to our house as the House of God to anyone who brought us up.

We were a growing fashion statement. Weekdays were filled with people asking to come over, cigarettes and beer being bought for us as tributes, and plenty of memories. Weekends were even crazier, with people streaming into the house by nine pm for festivities, live music being played, and suddenly being hailed as ‘The Party Gods’.  Waiting for my girlfriend to take me on the road was becoming more and more fun, which, later, left me more and more screwed.

Can Every Day be a Renaissance Day?


By the King’s Sword, I am a happy Ren-goer. Everything is amazing, despite the classic Ren Fair Hangover that comes with being a costumed Gypsy, gallivanting about with an Irish accent and a guild of wonderful actors.

This entire last weekend has been one of glory, to be quite honest. I had been to a larger Ren Fair before, but the difference is that I was too nervous to get involved in something that would, without a doubt in the world, become my scene. Honestly, I would want nothing more than to live in a Renaissance Re-enactment for the rest of my natural-born life.

The food was good, the company was better, and I am now considering investing myself in joining the MRAG, which is a wonderful troop of actors who travel from festival to festival. No, really, my life has been changed by this.

After mastering an Irish accent, I proceeded to rake in some cash singing raucous Irish Pub Songs and dancing like a mad woman. I was taught the ways of the Border Morris Dancers, and I was inducted into the gypsy troop. I battled with brave knights, and served ale with the prowess of a twenty year serving wench.

God, life is good. Now, my birthday is coming up, and I have decided that all I want as a gift is a season pass to the Minnesota Renaissance Faire. Pretty please?

It’s quite hard to readjust to a normal life after something like this. You look at your clothing and wonder when such odd contraptions were invented. All of your words have a lilt, and people ask you if you’re an exchange student. You no longer are in the constant presence of shirtless tumblers, beautiful wenches, dancing gypsies, and older wanderers.

You fall asleep dreaming of Irish music, men with Scottish Brogues, sexy pirates, and gorgeous Fawns.

It’s really a sad story that it has to end. A very sad one indeed. So, as I wrap up this blog post, I bid you all to attend your nearby Ren Fair, and experience the joy that I have just felt.

LONG LIVE THE KING, HUZZAH!

Hey, don’t say that, I work HARD!


Okay, so again, I lack the creativity or the time to actually write about the news or anything of actual importance. However, it is a Monday, so I feel as if I need to do something to get those creative juices flowing, yeah? It’s so great to be able to just rant and rave and rant and rave etc. and actually have people wanting to pay attention to me.

I doubt this blog will be that funny, but I have said that before with rather positive results, you know, because it actually was pretty amusing. Yes? Yes. I will be doing a list of five today, I just don’t know about what, and I suppose that you might get angry because of lack of progress in the maturity department, but really, I’m trying.

I’ve been so overloaded with so many things, and soooo busy, that I have lacked inspiration to spend a little me and you time. Yes, I may be apologizing to wordpress itself, and not my viewers, that’s a possibility, but really, you guys are all vague and runny anyway. You’re like cute little watercolors by six-year olds. I can’t really tell who you are (or what you are) or why you even exist, but I allow simplicity in my life and I still put you on (or in) my fridge.

“Wait, why would you put a child’s painting in your fridge? Wait, you’re talking about me! Why would you put a freaking person in your fridge?”

Okay, let’s not go to extremes. It was a metaphor that just got a little out of hand, okay?

Okay, so as you may have noticed, I am cutting down a little on the swearing, because, though I really enjoy saying all of these really expletive things, I want you to appreciate me for my ability to write, not my ability to string 50 cusses together beautifully (though I’m capable of both).

I’ve been reading a blog that gets a lot of attention, and that makes me feel bad. I don’t know, I guess I want the little, awesome guys to get attention to, and this is probably based on the fact that I become incredibly jealous when I see someone with 9000 followers, but also based on the fact that I am a blog hipster. I think. Let’s add up the little signs. Oh my, I think we have found my list of five that only applies to me…or…let’s do…

You might be a blog Hipster if…

1. You have a blog. Okay, really, because not that many people have blogs. It IS a rising fashion, but it’s still a little bit obscure, if you know what I’m saying. The general categories are: Cooking, Foreign Exchange, College life, New, Comedy. I’m kinda all off all over the place.

2. You make semi-obscure references to movies that less that 30 percent of the American Population has seen.

“That’s so like Brian in the Breakfast Club.”

 Or, you quote a quote from a well known movie that no one really paid attention to.

“Where we’re going, we don’t need Hyphens!”

3. You generally refuse to read the blogs of anyone who has more than 200 followers. I personally browse through many blogs, enjoy many blogs, but only follow the blogs of those people with quality material and fewer followers. I want those little daisies to GROW!

4. You steered away from Tumblr and are on WordPress. Okay, it was stretching it to go to Blogspot, but really. You have a WordPress blog. You may have a Tumblr, sometimes go on your Tumblr, or even link your Tumblr once a week, but the honest truth of everything is…that you prefer WordPress. Who DOES that?

Me.

5. You consider your own material to be awesome, and you can’t seem to get your head around the fact that you only have less that 500 followers. I mean, for me, it’s really bad. 29. 29. It’s like that number is teasing me.

“Hey, Telea, I’m almost 30. I’m almost an accomplishment. Hahaha, not yet!”

Hey, it was actually rather refreshing to post my blog. I forgot how absolutely awesome that can be.

Okay, I promise I’ll be back with news and funny stuff for you soon!

Love ya!

Oh, fuck it, I’m in love.


There’s this certain thing that I have a tendency to fall in love with. It’s music. You know this if you’re an avid reader of my blog or if you also commit random acts of musical fuckery around your school. My base point here is that I’ll hear a song and fall in love with it, and listen to it on replay for hours and never get tired of it. Okay, but then usually that band is a small band that’s not well-known or something, and that’s the only damn song I listen to by them because I’m afraid of the disappointment of learning that their creative genius only flowed through one song.

Needless to say, I took a very big risk this morning when I switched from ‘My Heart With You’ by The Rescues  to ‘Can’t Stand The Rain’ by The Rescues.

I also wish to let you know, that there is no possible way I could fall any deeper in love with a band. I have just become a hardcore Rescues fan. Call me a freak, or an addict, but this goes far beyond what any of my dreams could hold, and I now hope against hope that they somehow find my small town and come perform here. That is so far-fetched that I can’t even believe I’m wishing for it, but the fact is that I have no monies to go see them, and I’m so busy that a trip to a different state far away or something would be a bad life choice.

Let’s move on to other topics, even though I’m going to be basically orgasming in my seat all this hour as I discover more and more of this beautiful band’s music.

The big five today. I have no idea again, and this scares me, because the thing is, without my inspiration, I have no idea what I’m going to do. Let’s see…

Five things that other people love that I just can’t seem to wrap my head around.

1. Screamo. Okay, so there’s some screamo that’s actually pretty decent, or when a heavy metal band adds a little screamo on the Chorus or on the bridge, that’s okay, but when it’s a whole song that’s just filled with noise (Reference is ‘Redrum is Murder’ by A Beautiful Lotus), it just hurts my ears. It has to take a real masochist to spend hours listening to the sound of humans imitating nails on a blackboard with the noise cranked to ten. I have a certain respect for these people, because they must really devotedly hate their lives.

2. The vampire craze. I mean, yeah, I read the Stephanie Meyer books, I read the Anne Rice books, hell, I read the Fear Street books. I am guilty of watching at least four episodes of The Vampire Diaries. It doesn’t mean I’m gonna go and start purposely sitting in dark rooms and dressing all in black so that I look more like a vampire. It doesn’t mean I’m going to frame a poster of the R-Patt posing as ‘super-hot, super-buff’ Edward. I mean, really, he’s not that hot anyhow. It REALLY doesn’t mean I’m gonna have a freak attack every time the movie industry tries milking the shit out of the vampire craze by making another cheesy movie.

3. Clothing-specific stereotypes. For me, I dress the way I feel the most awesome, and to have people hating on me for wearing a tie with a plaid skirt and thigh-high play-boy bunny socks one day and then just sweats and a tee the next…that’s fucking ridiculous. Also, what is this whole thing with Hollister and Aero and stuff? If you wear Aero, you’re either a bitch, a prep, or a jock. No. Just no. I mean, yeah, I can be a bitch, but that is not the key word that makes up my life. Fuck clothing stereotypes and fuck you too. Hell, if you’re gonna keep judging me for what I wear, I’m just not gonna wear anything at all. Take it, bitches.

4. Stupid College Movies. Everyone is like, we are so living the American Dream and this is really totally fucking cool, and I’m gonna be just like fucking Van Wilder (Have you noticed at all that I know about everything? Like, not really everything, but quite honestly, I can make sooo many different references). No. It’s not gonna happen. Yeah, college is cool, or so I hear, but it’s not the CONSTANT PARTY that you heard about by watching shows like Greek. Yes, I admit, I liked Greek, but get over yourselves, there are only a couple of these movies that stand out (i.e Accepted, Greek, Van Wilder etc.), and they are not your life story.

5. The bible. Come on, talk about the biggest cult classic in history. I have to congratulate you, writer of the bible, since I will NEVER be as famous as your book was. Of course, my hope is that I’m recognised for my talent, rather than people living the story of ‘God Wrote This Through Me’. I can have some respect for your decision to say this, but to write a work of fiction (possibly with some basis in Historical fiction), spend all that time, and then say that one of the characters IN YOUR BOOK wrote this…I wouldn’t do it. It’s like…being completely fucking mental.

Still, kudos to you for being a best-seller for the last however many centuries. I salute you.

Okay, that’s it, love ya!

Prompt me.


Okay, so I got a little bored of the old blog topic generator, so I’m gonna try out this one today.

http://www.creativity-portal.com/prompts/imagination.prompt.html

This one happens to be a little more imagination-based, which is something that I really super legitly love in life. Now, I know readership has been down (Come on, I have a stats bar that tells me exactly what’s been going down on my blog), but I’m not even mad, bro. The realization that I have come to, is that this is actually honing my skills as a writer, which I will need in my future, as I’m going into Music as a major and Creative Writing as a minor. I hope to be a bestseller, but I would settle for a local legend.

Wait, I kind of already am a local legend. I mean, think of all the stuff I get done all the time. I have a blog that I somehow manage to keep up a little bit some of the most of the kind of the all of the time (sorta), I can do ear piercings, septum piercings, belly button piercings with great awesomeness, I write in a journal (kinda once in a while, but since my mum started reading it (that bitch), I kinda stopped), I sing, I dance, I do all the teenage stuff, and I still have a little time to hang with my family. I mean, yeah, I’ve been slacking on my youtube channel, but it’s alllll good.

Sooo, let’s move on to the topic I had generated for me. Now, since it’s incredibly fun to do, at the end of every blog, I will make a 5 point list like I have been doing. It’s fun for me, it’s generally fun for you, and YOU COULD PUT IN INPUT TOO IF YOU REALLY WANTED IF YOU SENT ME SOME MAIL ONCE IN A WHILE (poisontheperfect@gmail.com).

The question that has been generated by the god of imagination is…

If your best friend was here, what would you say?

Ohhh myy, this is gonna be a long topic with a ton of inside jokes that you won’t understand starting with just. two. words.

“Soo, liissssttteennnn.”

Now, I’ve mentioned Kresha in my blog before, and she is truly my bestest friend in the whole wide world. I feel as if I can tell her everything, and the best part is, she feels the same way about me. It’s chick love, without the lesbian sex and all that jazz. We’re the best two friends ever, and sometimes I give her a hug, pull away, and then call her Doug and then I get to give her ANOTHER best friend hug (Hangover reference).

I don’t want to sound all sappy about this on my blog where everybody who reads this doesn’t even give a chainsaw (damn, I need originality, I’m just stealing EVERYTHING!), but I’m gonna spend a couple of minutes just talking about how much I love her.

If a really fat kid who really loves chocolate cake was to have an allergy to chocolate cake and spend 20 years without it until a doctor cured them of the allergy, and then they got high and were presented with the world’s best chocolate cake, then the love that that fat kid felt for that cake would be about 1 tenth of a trillion of how much I love Kresha.

If a man with AIDS was to die a virgin but have been violating himself with the knowledge that his mother was a sweet transvestite from transexual transylvania (DAMN MY FUCKING UNORIGINALITY)…Okay, I’ve got nothing, but here’s the thing. I really fucking love Kresha, and I would give my life for hers (not to seem too creepy or anything).

Let’s do the ending topic with the 5 points now, since I have 4 minutes left to write this. Just think, I’m a free writer with deadlines. Fuck me running.

Topic Generator says…

5 cutest pickup lines?

1. Hey, my name is Telea, but you can call me later.

2. Do you have a quarter? I want to call your parents and thank them.

3. Baby, you’re sexier than socks on a rooster!

4. Oh my gosh, I’m having that dream again!

5. Okay, I guess you can kiss me later, but you CAN’T tell anybody.

Hehe, cute, right? My favorite one is the first one, but uhhh, that’s just me.

Question of the day is…

What’s your favorite or most disgusting pickup line you’ve ever heard?