There's not one fucking bean of natural caffeinated coffee in this house, I'm losing my mind, but at least I'm alone and I can play my ungodly music at a volume range reaching 600 decibels. It's this music, not any specific band or era, that i can thank or blame for most of the important life choices made up to this juncture. Although it's not really about punk rock or hardcore. It's about whiskey nights and sunrise cruises, too high on adrenaline to feel hung over yet. It's about going to shows and throwing down as if every tour was the last one a band would ever play. Waking up with bruised shoulders, split lips, and sore buccinator muscles because we didn't stop smiling through four bands respective sets. When your front tire bites in and the moment is frozen as momentum whips you through the turn. As fucked up as shit seems to be right now, I've still got that feeling, I still have a passion that those fuckers can't strip me of, beat me and jail me as they please.
Signing Off
-MT
For Fun:
Losing It...
Skid Patch Calculator- Hot Damn
http://www.apple.com/downloads/dashboard/calculate_convert/skidpatchcalculator.html
A freeware Mac Dashboard download for those in the star tattoo, fancy jean crowd, who just can't figure out what purple anodized Sugino ring to order to allow for maximum tire life and even wear. Apple has us just where they want us don't they? And I'm giving the final word, owning a Mac no longer distinguishes a person as it once did, owning a mac is now officially cool. Which makes it totally and completely uncool for sauve, attractive, fashionable folks like yourselves, which probably means this old news. What the fuck do I know. In conclusion- Skid Patch Calculator for your Dashboard= free= Word is Born, Motherfuckers.
Blood, Scars, and Hangovers
It's about all thats on my mind every November 1st; goddamn, Halloween is such a kick-ass holiday. This year my bloody wounds don't even have a good story, after numerous tall-boys of PBR I wrecked on my way back home, about 20 feet from the front door of my building, it was rad. Scraped up those clean-ass Nitto bars and both my elbows, I'm really quite astounded that I made it though the alley-cat I raced in without killing myself, hauling ass on these mountain streets in the sort of stupor that usually leads one towards activities of the felonious type: trick or treat motherfucker. The after race party was loud and rowdy, just like it should have been, stretching across two apartments and spilling out into the connecting hallways, all guests with the aforementioned tall-boys in hand, either that or one of those fucking lethal "irish trashcan" drinks getting ripped to the tits on the caffeine and liquor, fucking degenerates. God only knows how many of those things i poured down my throat, all i know is that i was feeling it this morning. Feliz Dia de los Muertos.
-signing off.
More Interesting Than This Page:
Fuck You! - somebody brick this guys house.
Lance is putting in work
Update from the Front