If i had a gun....

nevurrr mind,it is wise not to think about it.

I am home on a beautiful windy night,i tried counting stars but there weren't any of 'em,i am home all wrapped up in silk pj's with land of ill earthquakes on replay,i am home craving for some cheeseburgers(preferably not macdonald's),i am home and with my new breast friend. fellow bitches,meet miss chicken pox.

i hate being itchy. it makes me feel dirty. like as though i just rolled in a puddle of mudd(wait,isn't that a band?) and like boys,i am too lazy to have a shower. wanting to scratch is like a crave. no,piss that. it's like a desire(with added drama tone) brewing from the depths of my skin to the roots of all the hairs you can find on my body. i hate you miss chicken pox. you are and will never be my best friend. i lied in the 3rd paragraph. you are NOT my breast friend unless you stop making me feel itchy.

i am random. and itchy. i have nothing to blog about and i know it. i bet you know it too but maybe you were brought up to be polite because society hails those kind of personas and shit (which i think is basically a whole load of bollocks),you do not point out the obvious so you just keep reading and reading and reading until maybe,just maybe you'd find a sentence,phrase,word,whatever shitznitz that could make you go "oOoOohh *insertwhateverblondwordyoualwayssayhere*"and then you think it might not be so bad after all to keep reading since i might have captured your attention for i don't know,say 3.7 seconds? so,after 3.7 seconds of attention capturing using my inevitable power of ummmm...attention capturing(?),you scroll down and down,salivating saliva(duh) tongue rolled out hungry for more and then bam! you realise,sadly,rather tragically,i am ending my post here.

did i mention i am itching?