Indian Thriller
I cannot stop watching you
and I don't want to
I am not kidding, I cannot stop watching the Indian version of thriller from yesterday. The one with the english subtitles is especially entertaining. Girly Man Man Man!
Anyhoo, life in Northeast was not so great. Dad was heavilly into the cracketry (and it is now confirmed that he no longer cracks it up), Janet's breathicles smelled of hot cock, a different one each day, and the 6 of us shared a package of cinnamon rolls a day as well as the 5 dollar "Piccadilly" pizzas they sold at the neighborhood convenience store. We had mice, smelly clothes, and drug dealers contatntly dragging us into the abyss.
I think I already spoke of how I left my home, never to return, and how I lived with my sister for awhile, today is going to chronicle a little more about my fun time living under Jeff's roof. Boy was life there soooo much better! I got to live in a basement! I could hear Richard, the bum who slept in the unfinished part of the apartment building, farting and masturbating vigorously almost daily through the thin sheet of sheetrock that seperated me from complete failure! When I moved out I moved in with Smeagol and it was a step UP! I accidentally ate a piece of chicken I was not sure that Jeff purchased and later found out he took it from some guy who was going to throw it out at Churches! Let me tell you something, right now. You listen, and you listen good: If Church's Chicken is going to throw something out, it is not fit for human, bovine or dead person consumption. I had turned my nose up the last time he brought home chicken and donuts because I knew, this time though it was the day after payday, how was I supposed to know?
I tell you guys, Stevester hit a low spot at that point. Listening to Jeff pound my mother's monkey hole through the sheet that seperated the couch I slept on from their bed, sleeping 12 hours a day, playing an old atari 2600, life friggin' sucked. I had no money, no real aspirations, I tell you I almost grew a perm and wore a green thong, grunting angrily whenever someone sat on the same couch my saggy testes rested on. Little did I know my ticket to salvation rested in the thong of a North American Smeagol, the most dangerous in the region...
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