Some days it doesn't pay to get into bed.

Well I figure enough time has past to admit something about the previous posting. I was so fucking drunk when I wrote it that I don't know what it says, and I havn't read it yet to find out. I understand the highlights, and have spent the past couple of days soulsearching, trying to find out where the fuck they came from.

But I know what you're thinking:
"How could you have possibly been drunk when you wrote that? It's so good? No inebriated mind could produce such a wonder of rhymless poetry/obervational almost-humor."

My answer? Two words: Ernest Hemingway is a bitch.