Yes, I know you're Thursday, and, yes, I know that means I have to go but I'm making a fucking blog entry so leave me alone for a minute, okay? Jeez . . .
I hate when I buy a CD I hate. Especially when it was one that I thought was gonna be good. Gods, it makes me angry. I won't tell you who it is but I had to go to Tower to find his music and he did a lousy cover of a Tori Amos song I really like (I guess I really like all Tori Amos songs). I don't think I can return it, so I guess it's to MusicTrader with me . . .
In Clairemont yesterday, as I was getting out of my car, an obasan, an old woman, walked up to me and explained that I looked like I could be someone famous, that she needed long dark hair (she had thinning white hair), that she needed a certain balding 45 year-old man to fall in love with her. Apparently this man was dating her daughter but was too old for the daughter and too young for the obasan. When he was getting out of bed at a hotel the obasan used to work at, he asked her what it was like to grow old and lose one's hair. She wished she had said to him, "You tell me." At this point in her narrative, she noticed a few police cars in the parking lot with us, said something about how cops were both good things and bad things, that they were never around when you needed them, and then she left.
So I went to Subway sandwich and when I asked the woman there for my usual sandwich, she began making a burrito. Brains don't work properly in Clairemont. Maybe because they have a Krispy Kreme. It's softened them.
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