Being in a Doom/Stoner Metal cover band with the boyos is pulling me right the fuck out of this whole “crippling depression” thing, and it’s kind of amazing.

Friends plus loud music equals happiness.

Covering this song with the boyos, along with a bunch of other doom metal anthems. Doing the vocals for this is thrashing my throat RAW, and it’s glorious.

lavender-wise:

Myspace pictures…

wutdafuq?

Chami being cute, and then…
Me being a slut.

Sometimes I forget how ridiculous high school was. My reputation was out of control.
Skipped school to go get lunch with Bree (top) and our other friend, Kristie one day. I came back 20 minutes late to CWR, and no joke, A VAST MAJORITY OF THE CLASS was convinced that we had just driven off, had a goddamned threesome and rallied back to school.
No, I’m not kidding.
I spent the next 40 minutes trying to explain to them that we had, in fact, only gone to a coffee shop and gotten ham sandwiches, but nobody believed me. Not even my CLOSE FRIENDS.

…My life, you guys. My life.

Probably going to be posting a lot more Diablo III content on here and a lot less random goofiness.
I think this Tumblr is getting coupled with my Youtube channel, so if you don’t want to read lengthy, in-depth analysis pieces about leveling builds, end-game survivability, gear comparisons and boss strats, now may be the time to un-follow.

Kay, so I just got a call from a female friend and former love interest. At four in the morning. She called to panic about the fact that she has horrible nightmarish diarrhea right now and can’t decide whether or not to go to the hospital. I told her to drink a lot of water and call in sick for work. She balked, saying something about nobody being able to cover for her. I guess she’d rather shit her pants at work than get in trouble, even though her boss loves her and she probably has food poisoning. I patiently calmed her down, then I heard her light up a cigarette, so I gently reminded her that nicotine is a stimulant and thus a terrible idea during times when you could shit through a fine mesh screen. She hurriedly said she had to go and that she’d call me later, and then hung up. Presumably to shit more.
I was literally 30 seconds away from falling asleep when she called, and I’ve been awake for like 28 hours. Now I’m wired. Party hardy.

That’s weird enough, but like a week ago, a buddy of mine shot me a panicky phone call (only at 3 in the morning, thankfully). He doesn’t even live in state, but he thought it would be a great idea to wake me up from a legitimate Lexi Belle wetdream and assault me with like fifty concerned questions about some bumps that have been appearing on his junk over the last month. No, really. This is my life. He was convinced that it was herpes and had a shitfit over it because WebMD has that effect on people. I let out a heavy, rattling sigh of resignation and asked him to describe his symptoms. He did. I sighed again. More audibly. He clearly didn’t have herpes. He had folliculitis from lifting weights and rocking a sweaty ballsack. I told him to wash his junk better and not trim his pubes for a while. Then I told him to go to a goddamned urologist and get tested for STD’s anyway, knowing that on the off chance that it wasn’t folliculitis, making sure that it’s not genital warts (HPV) is a good idea. He said he couldn’t, because it might interfere with his Army eligibility going in as an officer if it came up positive and he had an STD on his medical records. I told him that calling a friend who lives 2,000 miles away in the middle of the night to describe bumps on your penis does not make for an accurate or comprehensive medical diagnosis. He paused and said “Well, you know more about dicks and vaginas and stuff than like anyone else I’ve met, ever.”
I sighed again, told him that I hated him and that I was going back to sleep, then hung up before the conversation could get any weirder.
Had another wetdream after that, but it was Flower Tucci instead of Lexi Belle, so I basically hated every minute of it, and my asshole friend for causing it.

Seriously though. I’m that friend. I need to start doing more shit to betray people’s trust so I don’t have to listen to them freak out about their genitals and bodily functions while I’m balls-deep in dreamland.
Shit’s no good, you guys.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the move to Montana. It seems like this really awesome chance to do things differently with women and stop tramping around so goddamn much.
Anymore, it’s feeling more like a job than sex, and it’s kind of lonely as fuck.

Anyway, Tim and Alyssa were over last night (future roommates), and Tim saw fit to tell me that he and the rest of my friends have literally started a betting pool on how long it takes me to bed down with a ladyface after we roll up to Bozeman. I don’t think any of them gave it more than a week, and some of them think it’ll probably be more like hours.
Yes, really. I don’t know what’s more incredible: that they think I’m going to bar hop and hit on girls after driving for like four days and smelling like smokes and ball sacks, or that they think that I might somehow get laid doing it.

Either way, it’s always nice to know that your friends have faith in you.
IT’S NOT LIKE I’M TRYING TO GROW AS A PERSON OR ANYTHING, GODFLAPJACKSDAMMIT.

Sometimes when you’re drunk on cheep beer and it’s 1 a.m. on a Thursday in your dad’s basement, it’s perfectly acceptable to microwave like six hot dogs and wrap them in Wonderbread because you’re out of hot dog buns. Also, condiments.
God damn, I was hungry.