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.