What's up, abomination of 2 AM insomnia?

It's not an easy task, to destroy, en masse, an entire population. It takes a substantial amount of introspection, to accept the responsibility to exterminate a group of individuals.

This time, it was my turn.

Armed with only a flyswatter, I single handedly destroyed the entire population of fruit flies at my workplace, giving them only enough time to repopulate again and again, as their reproduction rate seems to be faster than the rate at which I kill them, but God knows, it was a slaughter.

A fucking massacre.

You know, it never occurred to me that I could just leave.

Now that it has; peace bitches. I'm getting the fuck out of here.

When I sit in grass, amongst clovers, I inevitably search for clovers of the four-leafed variety.

Inevitably, I don't ever find any.

Today, I found three.
Pretty swell.

Salvation can be found on a torn Mcdonald's bag, and it starts with "left on holloway."

Driving down 280, coming home from San Francisco, I couldn't help but think to myself,



"My, my. This place is ever so bunk."


Oh, colloquialisms. Hella colloquialisms.



I think it might be time to go.

No matter how hard I try, you foul toaster, you leave crumbs everywhere.

Fuck you, toaster.

I pick you up to clean you, and as I set you down, more crumbs fall.
Toaster, you are the bane of my workplace existence.

I detest you, maker of toast.