A young man enters the Ford Dealership on Mt Moriah today. He was wearing nothing but a belt of ammo, no pants, no shirt, no socks, wearing his doc martins, the shoelaces trailing behind him like his sanity. A shotgun rests in his arms, hair a mess, stinking of vodka, html and anger.
Judgement has come.
We all make mistakes.
I make them all the time.
But now they shall pay for theirs.
Whoa, sorry, didn’t even know i was typing.
Hi everybody. It seems lately that ive been getting a decent amount of hits(3 people), because basically, my viewers can tell i’m either going to kill myself, my car, or the ford dealership that screwed me over.
Lets start from 7:30 this morning. Michael woke up in his bed again. Startled by his familar cell phone. It’s mom, she says she’s running a bit late but she’ll be there in a few seconds. I am still in bed. I have to be at work at 8am in hickory hill, i’m in midtown. This isn’t good. Going to get fired on 2nd day of new job. Good, finally have a reason to eat the “special pills” and meet “jesus”.
My laptop has a episode of Futurama playing on repeat, neither my clie or my alarm is going off. Thanks technology, mouth fuck me again.
I bound out of bed, take a 30 second shower, bound down stairs, throw on shirt, boots are inserted and i run down the driveway to meet my mom who has probably been waiting there for 5 minutes.
This is the way everyday should start, really.
I button my shirt, put on socks, tie my shoes, take out my earrings, brush my hair, tell my mom that it’s not her fault her son is going to kill himself and we get to work at 8:03am. My boss, a really cool guy, who’s name i won’t mention because of Google, says he’s impressed that my car wouldn’t start and i still got there on time.
Yeah, you’ll be really impressed when you see me on the news later with a Benelli shotgun and a bunch of hostages at a ford dealership.
I have a few arguments with my dad about my car that is leaking the blood which keeps it cool. i have trouble accepting the fact that my car was looked at by a dealership, pulled up in one of those little things that people can crawl under and look at the source code of my car, yet no one seemed any worried about the fact that it’s fucking bleeding.
anyway, after that, the head gaskets explode like so many iraqi insurgent’s heads.
Now, in my vast database of car knowledge i’m getting sodomized with, i have now have a new chapter.
So apparently, your car will explode and not work anymore if these things called head gaskets blow up. From what people have told me, that’s not good either.
My dad, who i don’t like to mention on this site since he probably reads it and probably has tried to get it shut down, drives out to the fucking ghetto where i am currently employed, gets my keys and takes my poor mustang to a local midtown shop. You have to understand that we have 3 days until thanksgiving, when the entire fucking country celebrates the fact that we raped the people who live here for the place we’re not slaves. Anyway, i’ll save that for thursday’s update.
The mechanic tells us that it’s not good, going to be roughly $800 to tear engine out and replace everything. He says he can have it done by wednesday, just in time for thanksgiving.
I am thankfull. No wait, no i’m not.
I wish i could kill some indians and it would fix my car.
So at 5pm, my mom comes out to hickory hill to come pick me up from my job. I find out how much my terrible car is going to cost to get running and i kinda snap for a few minutes. I think what sucks the most about this is when i have problems in my life, i try to hide it from my family to try to keep them from feeling the shit that i have gotten myself into the past few years. They are innocent people in this, i’d rather be fucked and take care of it myself then drag my poor mother to hickory hill and back everyday. But they are blood to me and realize that if they don’t get my poor, broken, hungover body out there everyday, i’ll never fix my car.
It really sucks being super in debt and then being super happy that you have work, then being even more super in debt because of the fact that you got the job.
Only way i can describe it is, hey, remember that orgy with all those super models? well, you have AIDS, but if you have another orgy, this time with…..the Buffalo Bills, your AIDS will go away.
Yeah, that’s a good analogy.
Anyway, now i’m at my parent’s house and i’ve stolen my dad’s bottle of vodka. The irony of this is that if i don’t update my site and continue to keep everyone updated with this ongoing suicide note that is my site, i’ll go even more insane knowing that everyone won’t know “what happened”. But now when i wake up in…ugh 5 hours, i’m going to be hungover, then sit in the car with my mom, who has given way too much of her life, gas and mileage on her car then she ever should have for her failure of a son.
oh, and then i’m at work.
Work is good tho. Workaholics are just alcoholics without the stomach to handle binge drinking. The soft comfort of photoshop, dreamweaver and flash will soon embrace my battered and hungover body. That and the 3 pots of coffee which i will consume to keep me working and producing.
Anyway, i am now at my parent’s house, drinking my dad’s vodka, which i keep promising to myself that i will replace, watching my sister’s im windows popup while i try to puke up one last update in case i die in my sleep, knowing that i’m going to have to wake up and force my mother thru the trail of tears which is rush hour on I 240.
I was telling my poor girlfriend earlier, that if i had to choose when my car was going to get fucked up, it would either be on the way to a job interview or on my way to get laid. She is a little taken by this, probably wondering “where has he been going to get laid”, but eventually gets it.
I want to finish this with “i hate myself and i want to die” but the i think the higher powers are just trying to beat the fact that they exist into my head with the constant irony.
But everyone (all 4 of you) who are reading this, if you watch the news tonight and you hear about a hostage situation, just remember, jesus died on the cross for your sins.
But now toad, is dying at Dobbs Ford, for the sins of all those who were ripped off by their asshole, stupid fucking redneck mechanics, who IGNORE EVERYTHING I FUCKING SAY, NEGLECT TO WRITE IT DOWN ON THEIR STUPID LITTLE CLIPBOARD, AND THEN MY CAR EXPLODES AND THEN I WALK INTO YOUR DEALERSHIP AND….
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