Being a Whore.

Dammit. I'm becoming a blogging whore. I was just.. picking at my nails and looking and stuff and doing things and going, huh, I should blog about that.
per example. In the hotel that I'm staying at, there's this weird aboriginal painting in the toilet room. The thing has abs. A six pack. And it's like, a wolfowl thing, not Arnold, so it looks creepy. A creeper wolfowl. also. i had an icecreambar, and it looked like a sailboat near the end. I know. Fucking amazing. oops. I already whore around facebook when I'm bored. This is bad. I'm going to be stuck to this LCD screen for the rest of my lovely life.D: Already a paragraph. About meaningless shit. gasp. anyways. I poked a hole in someone's water bottle today. It was fun. But if that someone gets water-zored by the water bottle, that's bad. baaad. Not rally. I can ramble so well. About meaningless stuff. Like ice creams, and wolfowls, and water bottle, and how Michael Jackson looks like a funny monkey if you look at him right. (Okay, that was a bad one. Sorry.) I suck with jokes. Wit's better. yeah. Wit. Weeet. weeooowwweeeomeow. I need to get people to read this. and call me retarded, or something. Just so I'll stop. Stop whoring with shit.



Freee. Willy.