(From February 2, 2007 - I was 22 years old, it was 3:04 AM, and I was burnt out from smoking weed and probably playing WoW all night)
I live for the joy of not having to skip the next song that comes randomly. I would love fate if the next track is a good one. The beginning doesn't sound hopeful, but I'll listen another minute. Next please. Too bad I don't care enough to alt tab and change it. Why should one have to search through the list, the long list of tracks just to find the perfect one. It'll be over in approximately 5 minutes anyways. Thats the beauty of random. It gives you the krap and then it gives you the pizs. But then when it gives you the perfect song, at least you can sit back and love fate for bringing it to you. Even though it won't last. It will be over, and probability says you will get the krap again. Or the pizs.
Probability is a fhag. Not like the ghays though, they usually seem nice enough. Although they kinda seem to like the krap. None of my business. He's a fhaggot though, simply because thats the worst insult in my opinion. Err maybe that means its the best one. He tells you you are going down. Downtown to Chinatown to buy the chickenballs made from puppies feet. Down to the ground. Then up to the banana tree house, where you will receive curses from monkeys holding their poop. Only it's not poop, its golden nuggets, but they are still brown and squishy and smell bad so you will avoid them nontheless, consequently missing out on the great fortune you would have made as a pioneer in the golden monkey nuggets business. I guess we'll leave that one for the third world countries to fight over. But let's kick the fhag in his azs and go somewhere else instead of down. Is the silence a sign of sentient crickets attempting communication? I will become a druid then. I will live in the forest with the insects, and they will make me cricket wing robes, and a single shoe made of barley corns to wear when I host the Dance of the Garlilies, twice every year. Come to think of it, the probability of sentience occuring inside the body of a cricket isn't particularly good. Or maybe that is a good thing. Once they tricked me into the forest they might have just drugged me and raped me, leaving me clothed only in the duct tape that binds my hands and feet in the ditch by the highway, only to be picked up and tortured to death by Balinda Gurgendiezer, the alter ego of average, every day trucker Earl Bobinson, who's only real sin in the whole ordeal was in not knowing about the strange neuro-chemical produced by the reaction that would take place between the uppers and New Melon Blast Chocacola that he drank only hours previously, unleashing the hidden woman inside him, who just happened to be a deranged man hating psychopathic ho. Plus the Dance of the Garlilies sounds kinda ghay. I mean. Nothing against ghay people. Just, ewww. Yuck. So I guess I should just stay here for a while longer. If theres ever been a good time to kick a fhag in the ass as hard as you can, its definitely not now. I shouldn't need probability to figure that one out. I guess. Or something.
I live for the ashes that don't blow into my eyes. For the molecules of lighter fluid that aren't giving me cancer. For that dying glow of the embers that are my thoughts as I fall to sleep. They never make any sense, those embers. And they are lost, burned up in the flame of the wakened and the alert. My playlist only has one song, and I don't like it as much as I had hoped I would. And my repeat button is broken I think. Maybe.