Tag Archives: cool

Skipping Town


Now, where was I? On August twelfth, 2014, my life began to change (FOREVER, DUN DUN DUN) for real this time. Having cleared everything up with the landlord – and having vouched for a good room mate who could watch the house while I was gone – all there was left to do was wait for my girlfriend to get into town. Of course, there were still things to be done around the house – plumbing, electric, rodent extermination, and mattress burning – but that could all wait a couple of days.

She arrived that day, with a troupe of dirty, dog-toting, fiendishly smelly and good looking kids who did not hesitate to inhabit the house. Ten fucking lovely travelers and nine dogs later, we still hadn’t seen the end of the adventure. For a week, our house TRULY transformed into a punk house, despite several layers of paint saying otherwise. Every dirty kid and his mom showed up at least briefly to drink warm beer, smoke cheap cigarettes, experiment with psychedelics, and have a safe place to crash.

The smell in the house transformed from ‘fresh paint’ to ‘dirty underoos’ in about a day and a half, but no one was complaining. These dirty kids sure knew how to drink and they were a wonder to be seen pass-out drunk over a plate of burrito fixings in the kitchen at three in the morning. On top of the competitive drinking, they were actually helpful in fixing up the remainder of the house. With gasoline, hatchets, and matches as equipment, many of us gathered in the back yard to burn chairs, a dirty old mattress, and a couch. The neighbors borrowed us their hose to keep it under control. Flames reached shocking heights. The evidence was disposed of.

I mean…

Next was the beehive(s). Up on the roof, bees had infiltrated the ventilation system and needed to be dealt with. The tools for this job were

– One can of Ant Raid

– One large wrench

– Five gallons of water

– A video-camera

Climbing out onto the roof in a sports bra and a pair of dirty shorts, I was the second person to approach the bee situation. Lots of pointless wrench-banging, a few beers, and, surprisingly, NO bee-stings later, I had successfully outlawed the bees.

All while my drunk girlfriend laughed from the yard below. It was a good time in that final week of the house. Video games were played, work was done, songs were sung, signs were flown, tits were shown…it was all fine and well and dandy right up until the part where we were packing and leaving, which was more sad than anything else.

Diablo and I both got our bags fully packed on August 17th. The dirty kids that had assembled had begun dispersing, and we were down to the core group of friends and travelers. The ones we had to say goodbye to as we said hello to a new lifestyle with a bunch of tramps (oh, tramp is someone who travels all homeless-like without picking up work along the way. That’s the separation between tramp and hobo).

We had our final beers, did our final house painting, and left the house for good on the morning of August eighteenth. With my dog at my side, a backpack chilling on my shoulders, and four road dogs to kick it with, I was feeling pretty okay. It was, however, a long trip to the hop out, with way too many stops along the way, and by the time we got to where we were trying to go, we had one more road dog (and his puppy), no cigarettes, and not much beer.

There started my life of traveling. Migrating under a train bridge, we waited. We learned about trains and what rides were, well, ride able. We learned the names of the train units, the train companies, and rail safety. We learned what a ‘fire drill’ was and to ALWAYS keep your shit on hand when waiting for a train. It was train-riding 101, and we were drunkenly learning the ropes.

On August nineteenth, a train going our direction stopped, and my girlfriend and I ran alongside it for a few minutes before finding a ride. We had gotten my dog and both of our packs on the train when it started airing up (the brakes of a train work on a tension system where air is what pushes the brakes UP so that the train can start moving). We knew we didn’t have much time. Tiddly (the girlfriend at the time) hurried to lift her eighty plus pound dog on the train but to no avail. The harness slipped off of her body and she dropped to the ground as the train started moving too fast to hop off. We watched Girl (the dog) run alongside the train as it sped up and then we lost sight of her.

Cue horror movie sad music, lots of crying and puking, and two VERY sad people. We wondered what the hell was going to happen to Girl and what the hell would happen to us when our other road dogs found out. There is a code for hopping trains: Dog, Pack, You. That’s the order in which you get on the train. In the rush and excitement of taking her girlfriend on her first train, Tiddly had forgotten.

Luckily, the train slowed and came to a stop in Northeast Minneapolis. As we were rolling to a stop, my phone started ringing. It was one of the people we were planning on hopping out with and he was screaming that he found Girl and that she was torn up as fuck and that we needed to get our asses off of the train.

Thinking the worst, Tiddly panicked. I started making phone calls. Twenty minutes later, my dear friend Morgan was picking us up and driving us to where all of the other kids were. Talk about friends having your back in an emergency. We approached a seemingly dire situation. Girl was laid out on the ground and everyone was sitting around her. Approaching, we found that she had been clipped by a part of the train – probably a ladder – and she had a huge gash on her side.

We did all we could. Poured hydrogen peroxide on it and then bandaged it up – it was too late at night to head to a vet. We could only hope she would be fine.

We moved to a different hop-out spot that night, went to sleep, and woke up early in the morning. After refilling our water, making sure Girl was okay, and collecting our wits, we started waiting on trains again. The day was August Twentieth, and it was about two pm when our train finally rolled in.

A big, hulking, mass of steel and energy, the Inter-modal Train that rolled to a stop right in front of us was a beauty. Carted by Burlington Northern Santa Fe (BNSF), this massive cargo hold was our land-ship, and we did not hesitate to take our chances with her.

We found a ride where all of us fit and could stay hidden and then the train took off, only to slow down and roll to a stop directly in the middle of the train yard. For two hours, we waited. Voices hushed, fingers quietly rolling cigarettes that we couldn’t smoke, we all sat in tension, hoping that we wouldn’t get pulled off of our ride. Voices approached and footsteps sounded against ballast rocks, but no one came, and finally – FINALLY – we were on our way.

We were heading west, into a metaphorical sunset. Embarking on a journey that could result in our doom. In train riding culture, ‘catching the westbound’ is a term for dying, and I do not deny the fact that there, on my first freight train, parts of me were heading west for good.

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The Bell Tower


As we make the leap over the cusp of June and into the insanity of July, I would like to rescind a statement I made in my previous posting.The last night I got drunk in the HoG was mentioned in ‘The First Stroke of Luck’, detailing a night on a day of independence in America that I got pretty wasted. Whether it was fueled by the Wild Turkey or my disdain for an entirely dependent country celebrating Independence all of these years after a now almost pointless event, my body was intent on getting trashed.

We sailed through July with very few choppy waters. A man who’s name sounded like the word ‘Sin’ took us over to the church and showed us how to get up to the bell tower, where we were told we were always welcome. It was a series of shaky ladders and bird feces-covered rails to end up in a small room with a ceiling that you pushed up to climb one last, short ladder, and emerge into the light (or dark, depending on the time of night we went) of St Paul.

The church was old and tall, and from its highest height, we could see for at least a mile on each side as we stood on semi-stable antique floor-boards and sat in an old exercise chair that was perched in the bell tower for no discernible reason at all.

The bell tower became a place for romance, mid-acid trip meditations, and a sense of peace. Diablo and I would take special guests, two at a time, to view St Paul from an angle they hadn’t yet experienced. Hands were held, breaths were caught carefully in the backs of throats, and chaste kisses were shared under the near-starless metropolitan sky.

It became a symbol of hope for lost party-goers, a sign that they had gotten off at the right light rail stop or that they hadn’t driven too far. The church itself was open all hours of the night, and became a sort of quieter refuge from the lights, sounds, and people of the sometimes too outrageous parties.

A grand piano was stationed at the back of the church, along with a drum kit and a ceiling built for acoustics. We would often spend time in the bell tower before retreating below to the relative safety of the kindest-feeling church pews I have ever rested on. For the first time in my life, and in the lives of several others, a church was a safe spot, a true refuge from all of our worries.

As a pretty liberal queer individual with a social circle that had various reasons for avoiding churches, it was a really strange, beautiful thing to have a home away from home in the sort of building that had shaped so many of our lives in a negative fashion. What was this church that offered true acceptance for all and praised those who helped people truly in need?

Insane that my first brush with real Christianity didn’t occur until I was almost twenty years old, running a punk party house in a terrible part of town. Throughout my childhood, I had been shown many times that Christianity was corrupt and demanding. My parents, Agnostic to the bone, allowed myself and all of my siblings make our own choices but, at five years old when your best friend says she can’t be friends with you because if you’re not Christian, you worship the devil, I had made up my mind.

As I grew and learned about religions and cultures from all over the world, my closed mind on the subject of Christianity ever so slowly began to melt away. Regardless, I was still stunned at the kindness and acceptance of the people at Church. With almost nothing in their pockets, they still gave everything they had. With almost no family in the area, they built a family. While I remain unaligned with any religion, I am proud to say that I became a part of that family.

The bell tower was a symbol of hope for lost people, the church a place of peace for overwhelmed souls, and the people of the church a gleaming light in a sky of black, giving faith to many people that had grown to believe that the entire religion of Christianity had become corrupt and close-minded.

Every day, more and more, I was finding myself confident and at peace with myself. I had a good place to live, good friends, a good community, and damn good parties. My life was straight out of a movie. I was the slightly overweight, slightly outdated girl that ended up a small celebrity. I was the charming underdog who pulled incredible romances from hats like a talented magician. I had everything I could have ever wanted and…

I was still not satisfied.

Raping. Rape. Rapists. Rapers. This blog has nothing to do with any of those terrible things.


Haiii guys! Today will be a short post considering I used most of my study hall time working on my baller forensics piece, which is coming together quite nicely if I do say so myself. Here’s a little snippet of my life up to date for you, since apparently, you do love reading about the troubles of a total strangers. Yeahhhh?

Okay, so yesterday I did Play Auditions, and that was totally cool because I’m aiming to be the evil fairy godmother person thing and I really hope I got the part, but I can’t guarantee anything, which scares me, because I am the goddess of guarantee. Or something like that. My back still hurts, my front now hurts, and I am totally freaking out about our first forensics meet because I’m totally not ready. Except I’m a total baller and my definition of not ready is ‘I don’t know if I’ll be one of the really good people who gets a medal’. Yeahh, I’m kind of one of those super-competitive types that needs more if she gets a lot.

That’s an excerpt from my life, and now onto the business of the day, which just so happens to have nothing to do with my blog title. I hope you’ve noticed by now that I post blog titles that I hope will pull people in, make them say: ‘Ooohh, that sounds like a party and a half, a blast in a glass!’.

Our list of five is totally legit today, because I have no idea what our list of five should be about. THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK THINK!

I still have nothing, so let’s do a list of the five embarrassing things I sometimes do when I’m nervous.

1. I go to the bathroom. A lot. Yeah, it’s like my pee is nervous too. I can almost hear it screaming:

“Shit shit shit, get me out of this fucking body NOW!”

My bladder concurs, so there I go rushing off to the little girls’ room every 3 1/2 minutes.

2. My mouth goes dry or I over-salivate. It’s like, if I really need saliva, there is none, and so when I go up to talk or to sing, it sounds like I’ve been smoking for five years and I have a big chunk of phlegm/bile coating my throat and mouth. When I over-salivate, like for trying to ask someone out face-to-face or just trying to get through a normal day with a big ending, it’s like the Trevi Fountain decided to make a new home in my mouth. Just make a wish and throw the penny in. Try not to hit my pearly whites.

3. I get naked. No, I’m not lying. Well, kinda. If I’m nervous before a date or something, I’ll sit on my bed after a shower and just stare at all the clothing that could be on my body at that point but somehow…isn’t.

This is embarrassing because when my date gets to the house to pick me up, I’ve only just got my bra on, and then I have to slam the door shut and hope he didn’t see anything too forward.

4. I shake. Like, when I go up to perform a song, you can bet your sweet ass that my vibrato is NOT supposed to be there. This has worked to my advantage at many points, but if you hadn’t been paying such good attention to my voice and my face, you would have seen my knees knocking together like two baby saplings in a spring storm.

5. I talk. Like, babble. I get over-excited. I FREAK THE FUCK OUT! People tell me to calm down, but I can’t fucking calm down!

Okay, well, that finishes this…Sorry, I’m not that funny today.

Love ya!

Excuse me, you’re fucking stupid. Thanks, bye.


Okay, so I went to the doctor today, and everyone was all like,

“Ohh, I wonder what she has.”

Because that’s what people do when you go to urgent care instead of making an appointment. Our reasoning? Our doctor is farrrr to busy to ever see to us, so in order to get the care we need, we need to pose like we’re dying of AIDS or just got shot in the head. That’s what urgent care is supposed to be about, right???

No, ma’am (or sir)! Urgent care in my town happens to be a ton of old ladies with coughs and then a couple of babies turning blue, a couple of people who say they got stabbed but really just fell on the sharp end of the sprinkler, a couple of rapists who thought this was the free clinic, a ton of college students with nothing better to do, and me. Yeahh, so this is the part where I explain to you that if you were really interested in my life, you could just go back and look at the blog post before this to figure out exactly why I was in urgent care. Since you’re not…here’s a recap.

RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN SLIP OH OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT FALLING NOT THE FACE NOT THE FACE BAM JUST LANDED SCREAMING PAIN THROUGH MY BACK STUPID FUCKING BUS STUPID FUCKING LIFE THERE GOES COLLEGE FOOTBALL WAIT I DON’T PLAY FOOTBALL OW OW OW OW OW OW OW DYING PUPPY NOISES FUCK FUCK FUCK SHIT ON MY KNEES GET TO BUS FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!

Yeahh, that’s pretty much the story of my life. In case you were a little confused by the “Shit on my knees” portion, that’s actually one of those things where if I had bothered to use a comma, it wouldn’t look like I had some weird kind of fetish that would make someone run screaming from me. Like my sister, who just so happens to be on the road to being a serial rapist. My reaction?

I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!

If you’re curious as to what I’m referring to, I would like to refer you to my little sister’s blog, who only started this blog because she totally idolizes me and reads my blog every day (ahem, unlike SOME people we know), and now with her competitive spirit wishes to crush my hopes and dreams.

http://www.whenallthepetalsfall.wordpress.com

Okay, cooooooolllll bananas!!!

LIST OF FIVE, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!

How to lay the smack-down on someone less powerful than you (without getting in trouble). SO this is basically how to bully people.

1. Pretend you’re weaker than them, Then, if this person who is less powerful than you gets hurt, you can be all like, HEY, WAIT! They’re bigger than me, and it was in self-defense. So, when you punch them in the face, kick them three times hard in the nether-regions, break their best friend’s neck in front of them and then bite off all of their fingers, you’ll just start crying and say:

“They came at me first!”

This can also play in reverse. If they appear weaker than you and then they kick the shit out of your face, you can play the:

“I was defenseless, and I was just trying to defend my honor. Mommyyy, help me!”

2. Just hurt them through anonymous texts, practical jokes, and other things that can’t tie you to the scene of the crime.

3. Attack them from behind in a deserted alleyway and RIP THEIR FUCKING EYES OUT before they know who it was who attacked them.

4. Have your friend do it. Hey, if you’re too scared to do the crime, lay it all on the other guy. It works out perfectly!

5. This last one is a long shot. Here’s what you’ll need.

  • A dozen midgets
  • A pair of binoculars
  • Some paper
  • A writing device
  • The addresses of all the midgets involved.

Send letters to the midgets that say they’re from the person who you want to beat up. Sit on the roof of the building near where the smack is gonna be laid down with binoculars. Watch while the midgets track down the person and beat the shit out of them with their midget powers. MIDGET POWERS ENGAGE!

Okay, so I’m done.

Love ya!

 

Everybody loves a winner…if resentment is the same as love.


Now, it’s true that success brings you a lot of things, and in order to achieve success, you usually have to work hard or have a GGGRRRRREEAAATTT idea. It’s also true that on a lot of counts, success = or > Winning. Yeah, so what we’re gonna discuss today is why people resent winners, which I personally feel is pretty obvious. We’re also going to talk about why people resent me (P.S/Spoiler Alert, it has something to do with me being a total winner).

REASONS WHY NO ONE REALLY LOVES A WINNER

1. Winners have a tendency to shove their successes into your face. Who likes gettting the smell of someone else’s victory rubbed on them? That’s like saying, ohhh, I smell decent, not the best, so I’m gonna let the guy who smells the best touch me. Actually, it’s not like that at all, when someone smells good, they have to be near me at ALL TIMES. So, it’s more like…You have 100 dollars. The guy next to you just won the lottery. The guy next to you is your best friend in the whole wide world. You’re trying to support a family of 8, and he’s just a lone dude. Instead of spending that money on things that he needs or lending you a helping hand, he buys an ISLAND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN, AND THEN TALKS ABOUT HOW GREAT IT IS THERE ALL THE TIME WHILE YOU AND YOUR FAMILY ARE STARVING. Okay, maybe that’s going a little too far, but I’m just sayin’.

2. Winners are generally either ridiculously egotistical or far too humble. You don’t come across a winner that goes: “Oh, cool, I’m a winner! Now, I’m going to tell everyone once that I won and then move on.” That scenario just doesn’t happen. The two responses you generally hear are…

“I WON, I WON, DIDJA HEAR THAT, SUCKERS? I’M SUPERIOR TO YOU IN EVERY WAY, BECAUSE I EITHER WORKED REALLY HARD AT THIS OR I’M RIDICULOUSLY LUCKY! THAT MEANS MY GENES ARE BETTER THAN YOURS. FURTHERMORE, NOW THAT I WON, I’LL ALSO POSSESS BETTER JEANS THAN YOURS! SUCK IT!”

Or…

“Oh? I won? Well, that’s because so-and-so helped me. This is just reallu lucky. I don’t even know how this – oh, thank you, but I really don’t deserve this…”

Geddit? It’s overkill.

3. Many winners assume that just because they won, now all of their ideas are good. Okay, you had one good idea, you got lucky ONE time. But really, you can’t build a suspension bridge out of lollipops or be the survivor of a parachute-less jump from 2 miles above the ground into an ocean full of pirahnas. It’s just NOT going to happen.

4. Other winners believe that this is the only brightness their life will ever see. “Oh, enter a prize drawing at the local carnival? Uhmm, well, I won that one thing a while back, so I think that I’m not gonna really…do that great.” COME ON, PEOPLE! When it comes to something like that, you can’t lose! Okay, so you may not have won the prize, and you may have spent 5 seconds writing out your name and another 10 writing the correct pronunciation of your name (It’s LeviOhhhhhhsah, not LevioSahhhhhh!) below, but really, you didn’t lose anything, and thinking that just because you got your big win, you can’t ever win again…ridiculous. I mean, look at Mark Zuckerburg…wait, that’s a bad example. Moving on!

5. Everybody thinks that everybody loves a winner, but then they secretly resent the winner AND everyone else because they think that everyone else loves the winner and they’re the only one going:

“Seriously? This guy is a douchebag!”

It’s not true! Okay, some people may love winners, but that is a small percent, especially when you consider that you’re worth 8 people and everyone else is worth half a person (oops, sorry, that’s the winner in me talking)

So, as you can see, not everyone loves a winner, and some people even harbor quite a bit of resentment for them, ifyaknowwhatI’msayin!

THE REASONS WHY PEOPLE RESENT TELEA!

1. I’m a winner.

2. I’m a winner.

3. Win win win. Win, I’m winning, Look, I’ve just won again. Ohh, did I just lose? Nope! That’s just the slight downcurrent before my win. Ever hear of Sir Winsalot from The Legend of Winslin? You know, the one who ended up sleeping with Lady Winsavere? Yeah, that was totally me, on all counts.

4. Must I go further with my winnerness?

5. I’m not really a winner. I just like to say I am. (But you believed me or I at least had you laughing, soooo…I just won. By the way, you just lost the game.)

Okay, well, I’m out of here!

Love ya!

Libraries are the shit! Fuck you, I’m a Hipster, not a geek.(A.K.A What the HELL is a Hipster?!)


Okay, so I would not have had the chance to blog today if it hadn’t been for the fact that my mom desperately needed to go grocery shopping and so she dropped me off at the local library and left me to my own devices, which just so happen to include access to a computer and the internet because my library is awesome and they have about 13 computers for public use. Good times. Yeah, I know, I’m getting too excited about all of this, but the thing is, ever since I learned how to read, I’ve had an irrational love of libraries. Mostly the books, but the libraries are the shit, too. An intense love of books is known as ‘Bibliophilia’, which happens to be a word I learned from reading a book. You should try it some time.

Okay, so since this computer doesn’t have the best keyboard, I’m not gonna ramble on and on and on and on today, but I am going to post a blog, and for that you should be pleased. This will be my 70th post total, so I’ll be 30 away from the big one, which is very exciting to me, and if you think about it, really just a HUGE accomplishment for me. It’ll be like the mini-version of my one year anniversary, but that’ll be HUGE!

So, last night I went on an adventure that involved Ice cream, friends, The Legend of Zelda, and getting locked into a closet with a laptop and Omegle. It was so much fun, but again, we are not here to talk about my life, we’re here to discuss everything else. We’re gonna really start this blogging day by saying that a ton of people on Omegle told me I was a hipster because I wear strange hats and listen to Blink 182. That’s not the full story, but I was confused, so I looked up the true definition of the word ‘Hipster’.

I have found a few opposing opinions about ‘What a Hipster Really is’, and trust me when I say…it’s really harsh. SO, I’m gonna give you a few links that you may just enjoy. I mean, one of em is Cracked, so everyone will like that.

Soo, We’ve got Cracked.

http://www.cracked.com/funny-4573-hipster/

We’ve got ‘Look at this Fucking Hipster

http://www.latfh.com/

We’ve got the Hipster Handbook

http://www.hipsterhandbook.com/

(That’s so DECK!)

We’ve got Hipster Dot Com. (I don’t legitly think that this is really about Hipsters)

http://www.hipster.com/#/map

(This is kinda lame, though, since you need a smartphone to do anything with it, I do believe. Fuck that)

WE have have Tumblr titled ‘Stuff Hipsters Hate’. Hey, I find it amusing.

http://stuffhipstershate.tumblr.com/

Let’s Urban Dictionary this Definition up!

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=hipster

Always, always, check Wikipedia!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hipster_%28contemporary_subculture%29

Annddd finally, we have Hipster Ipsum, because what would life be without being able to randomly insert very stereotypical Hipster Phrases into a blog?

http://hipsteripsum.me/?paras=4&type=hipster-centric

Mixtape synth wolf, thundercats iphone sartorial four loko you probably haven’t heard of them scenester fixie etsy. Sartorial keffiyeh cosby sweater freegan vice. Organic trust fund wolf, thundercats keytar quinoa tofu. Skateboard keffiyeh banksy before they sold out mustache four loko gluten-free fap. Butcher american apparel wayfarers, VHS Austin cardigan thundercats craft beer organic cliche sartorial etsy. Blog butcher mcsweeney’s mixtape, next level +1 quinoa irony. Etsy raw denim +1 jean shorts.

So, after all this research, what have I discovered? IT’S TIME FOR THE LIST!!! (Possibly longer that 5 today)

1. It seems as if everyone except for hipsters…hate hipsters.

2. I’m poor. This means I can’t be Hipster? Surprisingly snooty middle-class for people who defy cultural norms.

3. The best idea is to live by an Urban Outfitters. I’ll stick with Goodwill. No, I didn’t get this for a dollar, it was five, and it looks damn good on me.

4. Apparently, Hipsterism is not allowed unless you have less that 5 percent body fat. Poor fat people. Always get the bad end of the deal. I’m poor and not a twig, what can I say?

5. I do like Indie Music. I also like Blink 182, Green Day, and a lot of Mainstream. It’s okay, homophobes, I’m not gay, I just really really love the Backstreet Boys.

6. Everything Hipster is Deck. Until Deck goes out of style to a point that it’s not cool to be uncool anymore.

7. I am not, and will never be a Hipster. This further backs up Telea’s point that Telea will always be just Telea and nothing else. I suppose that’s what the common person might call a win, but I’ll just leave it at:

“Me and my fantastic personality are totally Deck.”

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?