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Jesus. It's not even two yet.
Self-Portrait 3
hellblazer
--On my way to work first thing this morning, I got hit on by a skanky housekeeper who looked like she'd been rode hard and put up wet, and was at least old enough to be my mother. I guess now fugly road-whores twice my age can join girls under the age of 10 and gay men on the list of the only people in the world who find me attractive.

--On my way to the post office on my lunch break, I had the misfortune of hearing the conversation the two frattici fifteen feet behind me were having about their buddy's $300 a day oxycontin habit. Said conversation then degenerated into a debate over the merits of eating oxy vs. shooting it (It's cheaper to eat. The guy who does three bills worth a day is a shooter.), which turned into leaving the time-release coating on vs. stripping it off (you can eat more and not get sick if you leave the time-release on), which finally became the big question of the day, oxy vs. adderall or codeine (Valiums, apparently, are yesterday's drug. Nobody who's anybody does it anymore.)

--One of the girls who works back in graphics will sometimes come back from lunch wearing either (1) a different top, (2) a different bottom, or (3) an entirely different outfit. She'll do this, on average, maybe twice a month. My own personal theory is that she'll head home on her lunch break, and she and her fiancé will decide to get in a bit of the ol' in-out in-out real savage like before she heads back to work, and they decide not to worry about little details like taking off clothes and being neat, and, well, you know, stuff happens.



This post has been brought to you by the number 3, and by the letters MASSIVE FUCKING BOREDOM.