Yes, I want that lean, mean green. I want to flash it in front of cameras, flaunt it and spend it on ice-covered Rolex watches and street illegal cars with Louis Vuitton leather interiors.
The back of my eyes hurt. I think it is because they are rubbing up against my frontal lobe.
I probably need to take an anatomy class before I continue saying ridiculous things like that.
I submitted an piece to “The New York Times” for a Modern Love essay contest.
An? Why did I write “an” in front of “piece”?
It has been a long day.
Anyways, the contest was mass emailed by a journalism professor. The due date was March 31, so I sent it to the Times about an hour ago, 30 minutes before it turned April 1.
Wow, it is technically April Fools day. Wow, a dog just ran into my room.
That was not an April Fools joke, my roommate and his dog just got back from whatever in the hell it is they do all day.
The dog is sniffing around.
Nope, don’t expect any April Fools pranks from me. That urge has been squelched out of my system by a scarred childhood via my stepmother.
I would rather prank someone on a normal day. Who wants to do it on some designated day in April anyways?
Fuck da Police.
So the essay I submitted probably will not make it in the newspaper. I think writing something along the lines of “they will blow you hard and call you big papa” automatically disqualifies me. Bedsides, it wasn’t a cute or tragic love tale — just ranting about how I love money.
And how I do love it. God, the contest award $1,000 if they publish you.
You know it.