The Bombing of Your Stealth...

So I'm sitting here listening to Gordon Gano and the Ryans. I love his music and The Violent Femmes are pretty sweet themselves. Thanks for ripping Under the Sun for me, Ed.
When I was still in high school, while I was working at Wendy's, I met this half black/Nicaraguan girl who was into the Femmes. Apparently into me too, which was nice...
She unfortunately, apparently, had a boyfriend who realised it was apparently apparent that I was, apparently, doinking his girlfriend. Then, after a brief time together, she told me she was pregnant.
I knew this not to be true. So it was time to flee. But I always loved the Femmes, and actually saw them awhile back and posted it, and pics, to this very blog.
I know It's True But I'm Sorry to Say is one of the best songs in the world.

Do animals feel emotion? Do they feel regret?
I don't see any de-evolution in our future, so it'd be nice if someone would just put a kill switch on us. One that turns off the things that fill our heads with hope, then our bellies with sour grapes...

We saw Legion. It sucked, especially after the only thing messing with them were some fruity looking angels with bulletproof wings.
C-.
I'd more recommend this album I'm hearing right now.
I was liking it, but nothing seemed to be standing out to me until I heard Better Than You Know.
Buy this, or see him or the Femmes in concert.
You can't ask more from the dyin'...

Ha, even the angel and devil on my shoulders have left. They told me to try Mapquest instead.
Or Ask Jeeves.
After four years of sobriety, and several years of hellish descent after, I've once again taken up the mantle of posterboy for how not to live your life. My broken hand has mostly healed, though still a few months away from perfection, and seems to heal better than an internal orgal that needs no mention.
I'm just fucking mean, to myself and everyone around me.
I'm beginning to believe there is no cure. There is only being numb.

This would be a great time to be sent to war. I wouldn't care who I had to mow down just to... to... to... transfer the pain to someone else. Get it all out, tear something to shreds. It'd be even better if I could use my bare hands.
Yes, my hand will get better. The other things will take years of solitary confinement to get through...
And I will no longer break promises, especially to meinself.
I will fucking drive you all away, then I will achieve what I want. No need for your validation(my trepidation), your progress reports(my indignant retorts), your adulation(my evisceration).
The hunger in my stomach will fuel the hunger I have for perfection.
Freedom.
From the ties that bind.
Here's to your health.
And the bombing of your stealth...