Yesterday I went running and I came home with this cute-as-fucking-hell bicycle. This is what happens when your memory is photographic and you are not suffering from alcohol related dementia all the time. You run by a bicycle shop and see THE BLUE BOLT with it's cute little basket (not pictured) and you tell yourself YOU NEED THAT YOU IDIOT. So you rattle off your credit card number from memory and then brag that memorizing it prevents you from saving yourself from shopping on the internet. Then you laugh and tell the kid working behind the counter that you are like a 30-year-old lady and he says something like THERE IS NO WAY YOU ARE THIRTY. And you are not so you shrug it off and tell him that you are going to look so fucking hot riding this on the beach to get wasted on, or you know, to and from the coffee house where you say you are going to write, but really you are just going there to meet men and get fucked in the parking lot or maybe the mens room. God, you are too fucking classy for words.
Ahh, and my hangover just kicked in so I guess I will get up off my ass and drink an incredible amount of pedialite cause that is what grownup drunks have to do to get through their day when they spend the entire evening double fisting drinks like they are Robert Downey Jr. On a more serious note, I am going to spend my entire day writing on this stupid computer and praying for the moment I visit a gossip website and they tell me that Britney Spears's bloated fucking head went into a store with no shoes or underwear and she melted into a giant fucking pile of meth. And if you try to tell me she is a drunk and not a meth addict--take a look at her. That bitch has the worst case of meth face I have seen since the last episode of Intervention. Amazing.