I'm an alcoholic, but I really rarely drink. But really, what defines that alcoholism? I have a bitter fuse, born May 20, 1992. Born in a manger, with hopes that can so easily get carried away. I love Michele Bachman for her altruism. I love people saying what they mean. I love the love that comes with mean. I live somewhere between the averages and the Vornado fan. I've made records. I've put down lines through a TL Audio, and although it was kicking and crying, I had no pitch transposition courtesy of MXR. These are the hidden promises. Superficial secrets which are kept for their secrecy. For the art of oceanic sublimation.
Those who live the life of irony are forgiven only the transgressions they commit against themselves. Tossing and turning for the sake of the casino. Blasphemy in the name of San Pedro. Drifting in the name of the quaint overdrive of a long forgotten preamplifier. Arpeggios for the sake of dusty VHS tapes. Who doesn't want to fuck Sarah Palin? Isn't the Ombudsman of the New York Times included in the excess?
The poor on the 63 bus have the savior faire that Mitterand came into his bathroom sink. Scooped up by the aggregated PTSD of sunshine dancers, weaving themselves through the appropriate headlines.
At the forty yard line, irrespective of my distaste for football, I'm solving for x.
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