Sunday, October 28th, 2001 | 22:44
Help me communicate with my epinards

Tonight, I made (and by that I mean royally fucked up) my "Chances are I don't like you." T-shirt. The brush sizzled when I dipped it in the Javex (Fresh New Scent!). There had been some leftover paint on the brush I was using and it turned the entire sink a pretty gray-blue. The brush was too thick and all the letters became mashed together. I was thinking of wearing it tomorrow anyway. For the thrilling conclusion to this story, find me and look at my torso. I'll be the one looking suicidal (if it's possible to look suicidal).

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So deadpan, I'm actually dead.

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I had steak for dinner today. As I was cutting it, I brought the knife a little too close to my neck. For about two seconds, I contemplated stabbing myself in the throat, right there in front of the tv (BLUE'S CLUES ARE SMACKING YOU OVER THE HEAD FOR SO MANY REASONS). I decided against it, obviously. I wasn't ready for that kind of commitment.

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Sex sells stuff.

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I used the bleach to get hair dye out of my pants. That is the point of this entry. No, really!

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"I want you to kiss my feminine folds. Part my curls, if you wish. Oh yeah, and welcome to Wal-Mart" -A comedienne I can't remember

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I'm dropping Ancient Civilizations. I can't grow up enough.

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Bill Gates hates me as a person and as a consumer.

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ver1*3*ver2

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