Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid.

The Twelves - "When You Talk"

Bio:
I spent much of my night out after the game wallowing in the existential nightmare that is Federal Hill, sharing anecdotes about NYC lunacy with kids who graduated from Gilman one, two and three years after me. At one point, I was told that I owe it to myself to finish college. At another, that I totally belong in NYC, but that I just had to take care to run with the right crowd. And at yet another juncture, I ran into an old football coach (prickish metrosexual weirdo who was featured on the 2005 edition of the Bachelorette). "Staying out of trouble?", he asks.

Never That.

This Piece Of Shit Blog > Hipster Runoff ||| Soulwax > Justeece

KracK from Davvyk on Vimeo

Mo' Better Maths for that Aths...
Part of the Weekend Never Dies > A Cross The Universe

I can't pretend I didn't pay 75 bucks for a ticket to see them at MSG in March (didn't end up going though). I can't pretend that "Cross" hasn't fueled some of the more savage benders of my time. But still.

What's right is right.

And while we're on the subject of bloated-with-adulation, overhyped, soup du jour entities... I need soldiers for a concerted and consistent frontal assault on Hipster Runoff. Fuck that site. Is anyone (who's on the team that is) feelin' me here? HRO = wack city.

Can't wait for the backlash...


epilogue...
I'm bleeding. And it feels goooood.

Blogs are over.

Notes:
I have become detached. 

98% of the people I come into contact with nowadays bore me to tears. 

I look damn good in skinny jeans. 

I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how to write.

I haven't treated my nose in the longest. 

The only thing keeping me upright and above ground lately has been thinking of the day during which I accosted Kyp Malone of TV on the Radio on Bedford Ave., face covered in (fake) blood, crashed Grave Digger I into a New York City cab in broad daylight on Houston with a head full of intoxicants and got a super sloppy, impassioned blowjob from a sketchy dominatrix (who dated, but did not fuck, Mickey Rourke mind you) I'd just met at 6am in the Party Bunker bathroom. For the record, she went on to fuck TimeMachine in my bed not 10 seconds after driiiiinking my milkshake and then stole my MacBook charger prior to a hurried 8am Sunday morning exit. 

They say one shouldn't make a habit of living in the past, but Jesus. When ya gotta go, ya gotta go. If only I could say with a straight face that all this encompassed the most insane/intense day of my life. 

Gonna go J my D and think about the end of days.