I am fucking sick. A-fucking-gain. All I can do on my stupid day off is sit in front of this stupid computer in my bigass purple robe and eat ice and smoke cigarette after nasty cigarette. I am a picture of fucking elegance.

Anyway, I guess I'll amuse you squares now or something.

Last night, the Hippy and I went out and saw King Kong. Did anyone else notice the crate for the Sumatran Rat Monkey? I felt very proud cuz I "got it" then I felt like giving myself a wedgie for being such a nerd. Although, Dead Alive runs circles around King Kong (ooo...sequel?) and Peter Jackson will always be the first man to ever make me gag during a non-documentary film (Bad Taste).

And I love him for it.

BUT I HATE PEOPLE WHO TALK DURING MOVIES. I know, cliche much? But fucking god, man. The part where Kong was going through the cave and you see all the skeletons of his friends and family, this woman near the front said, "He's the last one!" right when I thought those exact words. That pissed me off. I didn't need to know that we were thinking the exact same thing and I shouldn't know cuz we're IN A FUCKING MOVIE THEATRE and PEOPLE DON'T TALK IN MOVIE THEATRES.

Damn.

I ate some delicious chimichangas, though, and the waitress was cute and she warned me that the rice was cooked in chicken stock. Hooray!

I need to recline.

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