Looking Class

     Just a tiny Redditor with a megaphone. Mega alone drinking a beautiful cocktail of Faygo-Patrón. So it goeth, broeths. Springtime has arrived again; oh wait, a thunderous cloud is forecasting its arrival at Fuck You O'Clock. Welp, time to lock myself in the (b)log cabin again. What a miserable state of affairs!
     Head over to my weather-proof gambler's den (stop snooping). Drop a couple quarters in a day-baseball contest. Judge, you mongoloid fuck: smack some long dongs all over these red socked racial realists. Who shall be my pitcher on this sunniest of sports matinées? You look quite dandy, Mr. Jacoby Junis (and I like your name). Slide snugly into my coveted top spot and throw those 98.3 mph fastballs quickly and—oh, can you not hit any batters? Can you throw an off-speed sinker to lead-off hitter Bubblegum Jones? He has a propensity to swing at garbage below the zone. Please, K that fat slobbering Chaddington Bear so hard he spits out his chewing tobacc-gum.
     Hey, as long as it is bat-ball season, the snoreswing references will continue to manifest in this testosterone-soaked vagina monologue. Like I said hours ago, I threw some 💵s at King Draft and hoped, in his gracious graciousness, he'd throw me a few money-colored bones back. Times passes, blah blah blah. Instead, this absolute King Dick fucks me in the ass and doesn't even spare me a dime (?)
     Aaaaah, well; yeah; um. It's OK, though. There's a #WNBA game I've researched for the past ten seconds I'm fully confident about betting $100 on. Tell me that I shouldn't do the thing. I'm begging you guys to take this fat hundo from my broke-ass and put it to good use (education, porn subscriptions, Rocket League crates). Spongebob voice: 10 minutes latah. So, before I typed all that nonsense I realized I have negative $2.84 in my Draft Killmyself account. FUCK. I'm out of here, the DFS God Himself is after me and oh fuck he's here and I only have enough to p—BANG.

Not sure what dis is but I guess I'll hit Publish?

Amorous Roast

     Writed too hard and failed a few languages. What is up, my brown excretions? What is up, my Israeli Gaza Strippers (one tip = one like!) Something something, let's get to the Americanistic, unrealistic, spastic quixoticists in the midst of the this written tryst. So, where we again?
      It's probably Monday—it's probably the unofficial first day of the week. Might hit up a bar later with los amigos, mi compadres. Tres idiotos, lol. Los huevos on those brothers.
      I think that's 5 spaces. Blogger dot com autosaving and thus saving this masterpiece from the darknet lingerers. So where at at? We doing this thing? We gf-bf or just waifu-Facebook-liker-extraordinaire.
      Y'all stupidheads don't even smoke crack. It's 8:04 on a Monday and I'm Bloggering like a 2005 Emily Gould. Referenced all over her adorned white bosom. Like seriously, if you haven't fucked a-cups in your lifetime, get a Lifetime O—eh too easy.
      Spellchecked this whole damn post and. Like, what's up with. Periods are the new em slashy dash'ems. Trashy mash'ems by Girl Talk and his decaying ilk. Lamb sent me a hot smash'em and I upvoted it and it magically became the top post on iFunny dot app.
       Aight, y'all are tired of my overhyped writtenisms. Write write wrought writhing white flight out of this blogged soggy ghetto. Whom even grammar-checks anymore? We just look for those red squigglies and peace it. As a 100-year-old centenarian-grammarian-aquarium, I miss the days went we could shoot a minority just for misplacing a subject modifier. Fucking millennials, am I riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight? C U N T. This Tuesday, my bizzle.

Opening Spray

     Two twenty-five on-a-Thursday. The first real day of spring, aka the start of the baseball season. My Philadelphia Prospects are about to take the World Cup with ease.
     On my other blog I'm tryin'a write of review of the new Jpegmafia. Death Grips with more blog-bytes per minute. Just a fucking killer record though. Peep it.
     Pie PMing me anime tiddies while I'm trying to break shit to this industrial glitch-hop. Don't make me post some 3DPD my man. I got jpegs hiding in sub-folders you wouldn't be able to crawl. Fucking nerd.
     Whoops, I'm talking out loud again. This new barista is acting like I don't own this own this scrub-hole. I'll sometimes stay 'til closing time and collect the spare 3 hour old brews they were about to dump. Nope, overweight neck-beard in the Reddit goggles: that's my coffee--pour it down my fucking throat.
     So about the new barista--we're kinda on a first-name basis. Kinda on a first pour "taste this." Slipped her my digits once and she seemed to throw them in a plastic bag which I figured was her temp-purse because she forgot her other o--
      So now I'm sipping on this mocha-frappe thing I ordered five hours ago. The drink is somewhat neutered by now, but this cardboard cup is surprisingly scrumptious. Back to my artisanal coffee mistress: she's drowning in five dollar specialty drink orders from the newly-free high schoolers. Her light brown work-eyes are shifty and disinterested. She catches me in a very precarious immersion re: her formal constitution. Oh fucksy, what that a muttered scowl? The message hath been received. I will take my respectfully observant ways elsewhere. Fin.

March Something

     Hello readers, writers, dreamers—flighters. It's been a little while since we've checked in on this bloghouse. Fuck, are the Christmas decorations still up? Someone pass me the eggnog. USE BY: JAN 15. That not too bad, right? Cheers.

     It's March Something; it's probably between 35-57 Fahrenheit degrees out, but I'm going to properly observe the outside world through the reflections of this recently-dusted laptop screen. Fractal tree limbs and other visual stimuli.

     My friend Celestaphone released his 87th album this week, the beautifully tragic Portrait of a Harlot. Send him some shekels in my name please.

     I've been listening to a lot of Sharon Van Etten, who is supposedly from my town. Try Our Love and fall in love ... with the delicate arrangements, you lonely perma-virgin.

     Updates and slut-tapes, what else you fuckface? Whoops, wrong blog. We livin'. Just like my Peach on Dreamland. Just like my Kirby on, uh—anyway.

     Spring is in the cards, my boys & grills. If my calculations are correct, in about two weeks it should be 63° every single day until June. We'll write novels about the struggles of being white in this increasingly colorful world. At the end, our white protag will befriend a not-entirely-white persona non grata and learn key things like "empathy" and "slavery was bad." In our last scene our colored comrade will unfortunately die so our Caucasian hero feels max suffering.

     N. E. Way. Fin. I'll return soon as spring returns to unfreeze my creative inclinations. For now, I'm off to discover music, in order to prep my conservational arsenal for any dreaded "social outing[s]."

Winter Cleavage

Christmas flew by as if it was only one day. It's the 26th of Decemburr; it's 29 American degrees and I'm shivering by the fireside. My proxy-life as a Philadelphia sports fan is shaping up nicely if my guy Joelly can stay healthy. My promising writing career is in the eternal draft-box—we've been through this! Bout to blow my X-mas cash on lottery tickets and a Large Fry. Listening to a bit more music of late—let my public radio guy blast some indietastic year-end mix with occasional political updates. For NPR(-affiliate), I'm Nick Blogger-and-this-is-All-Things-Considered. It's the twenty-sixth of December, forever, and the eerie dub-techno I'm listening to isn't helping me get over this breakup. Switch to some Fiona for the feel(ing)s—didn't like that shade of mascara anyway. "I don't wanna talk about anything," she emotes so controlled and delicate. Tears race out of my ducts, giving my laptop some semblance of humanity I guess. I'ma go read or s/t. 💔

Barren Leafs

Gotta write this review and I'm procrastinating. Staring at my waiver wire prospects and avoiding listening to the album of the got-damn year. Gas's "Untitled 4" in my ear-holes while the weather outside seems like Fall. It makes sense I guess; hope everyone is doing well in the real-er worlds. In my timeline these sentences connect a bit better. Whirs and waves–ambient staples for an October diarist. If one more leaf grazes the living room window I'm going to:

Gotta live it up, gotta live it up–must be happy

Mid-October keystrokes hit a little too close to home. I'd rather the rain drop than just stare. One of the worst living word-compilers. I thought maybe poetry was my thing but I need some breathing room. ESPN Fantasy notification: league taco dropped T.Y. Hilton's "bum-ass" after a 2.7 showing. Took a flier on him and Josh Doctson to withstand bye-week Hell. QB: Rivers. RB1: Gordon.

No one cares about your fantasy team!

Lips shut, leg(s) resting upon my 3.5'' desk with at least seven posts sitting snugly in the draft-bin. Aggressively tabbed out of eBay and threw some trade offers to the community discord. No one will take my Lynch despite his ferocious 1.3 YPC on 17 touches per game. Dumping my Chiefs D/ST and heading outside. First I must print out this week's "Love/Hate" column–and use it as a tissue.

Dalton Darts

It's ten-ten, twenty-seventeen. Looks like the best day of summerfall yet. Seventy with a mild breeze. Leafs blooming and my Maple Leafs cruising. For the two or three sporting fans in the audience, October is a big month. Baseball postseason, football midseason—hockey & hoops begin their marathons. My fantasy teams are on the IR. Excited to see what the consensus album of the year is. Need to refill my coffee-cup and figure out which sugar-packet to use. It's a decision I'm not equipped for—so I go black. Carefully caffeinated, I stroll through my Tumblr feed. Then I return to present time. Fixin' my roster in light of the upcoming footie games. Wish meh luck.