the Africans keep calling my house. their language sounds like "abuhbuhbuhbuhbuhbuhduh." i tell them not to call here but they keep calling. i hear the word ALLAH on my answering machine sometimes. i hope he is blessing their immigrant (old) (dented) minivans. my house sounds like the monkey cage at the zoo right now. some beotch just talked shit to me on the phone while someone laughed in the background.
update: she called back and said sorry.

want to know something i say a lot at my house: DOORS AREN'T TOYS!!!

also. when sending me a free book. why do i get 46/50 when you know my GODDAMN NUMBER IS 43???


also. my woman calls my female friends my little whores. some of you are them. some of you are not. also. otto is your pimp you fucking fags.


Here is my impersonation of fiction:

He'd never felt so alone before. Maybe it was the wind blowing under the poorly-fitted door. Perhaps it was becuz Mandy Jean had been gone for, at last count, 232 hours.


Did you like that? I have to poop. My bowels are clenching. Have a bless day. And only lick clean coochies.