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When I grew up, we ate cheesesteak, root for the Eagles, watched Fresh Prince, and went down the corner to see what Dog Trap was up to. Of course, back then he was called Skirt Cone. We were ten.
Skirt was a middle child of eight and he talked like it. He knew everything and he was loud. And when he was funny, he was funny. But we only got to see him every other year, before he'd wear his moms out and she'd pack him up and send him to his dad in Red Hook, who it turn only put up with
RE: 46237
Coming out your mouth with your blah, blah, blah Zip your lips like a padlock And meet me in the back With the Jack and the jukebox I don't really care where you live at Just turn around, boy, let me hit that Don't be a little bitch with your chit chat Just show me where your dick's at Music starts, listen hot stuff I'm in love with this song So just hush, baby, shut up Heard enough Stop, talk, talk, talking that blah, blah, blah Think you'll be getting this? Nah, nah, nah
I support them, much like the US supported the Taliban in the 80's. Now, I do not condone 2/3 of the shit they do -- a minority of the raids, the daily CP that is part of that life -- but I deal with it for the genuine no-punches-pulled humor and the words inserted into our collective lexicon in trade.
In fact, I can't imagine a world world without them. It's like a boom town in the wild west and Anon is the mafia is running the show! But no matter how much the outside world portray
I have toyed with lucid dreaming in the past. And I went on a good run of spotting my dreams, then manipulating them -- more often than not for sex -- I was eighteen.
So, last night I had a dream. And in it, I left work at lunch, sold a CD, and while sleepy, and not paying attention, I hit a pedestrian.
I hit the breaks and stopped.
But not in time to avoid hitting her. There were kids in the road, too. I didn't hit those, as far as I know.
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