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this is fucked up, right here


Me? I’m drunk.

Malibu. Malibue and Diet Coke. I think I bought one drink, then Naked Chris bought the rest. He never did get naked. And then there was another Chris. And Elvis. And somehow my lip priunts got on Elvis, Chris, Eric, and a very old man named Don.

Good god.

Oh, and my sister stopped me from kicking the asses of several skinny bitches.

Seriously. Bitches. I think they were the moms of the previous skinny bitches. Or possibly the First Bitches (kind of like the First Evil on Buffy but.. not. Oh! And Faith was our bartender. She was five by five, b, ain’t that right? Want’ take’ have). They were like muses from greek mythology only bitches. Or butches. No, they were bitches.


Fucking bitches.

Fucking skinny bithces.

I so cannot spell when drunk.

And there was Elvis. Did I tell you that? Elvis. Elvis is everywhere.

My fingers, however, are not everywhere and typing is oh so hard at this point.

Esteban just came in and told me to come to bed. And I’m shirviering.

Shivering. That’s the wrd. Right there. Shivering.

And I wore my tinerkerbell tshirt with my tinkerbell sundies. Like underoos but for big girls.

That sounds like a special department at Sears, doesn’t it? Big girls. Like ‘hefty’. I always hated that word. Hefty. It’s a garbage bag, people, don’t call your children ‘hefty’ because it’s just not right.


Goig to bed nowl

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