wheee

Apparently, my smoking will be going on hiatus. This, following my labyrnthine mind games with the world of oral surgery. If worse comes to worse, I secret away three or four patches for the plane ride. And sleep with the patch on and have shamanic dreams.

Today, at food for thought, I saw the hottest way to start your morning. Some fucking hot little nineteen year-old rocking the sweatpants-without-underwear look. Penis bulging through fabric in such ample display shall henceforth be known as cameltongue. It should be revered.

I'm going back to my parents tomorrow. And there is just enough herb in all of British Columbia to make it bearable. But stumbling across such a nug is unfeasible at best.

Tonight, the finale of Six Feet Under awaits ominously on the horizon.

It is precisely eight days before I leave for France.

I'm so fucking horny I could weep. The shocking abundance of hot gay dudes in Mo-town has been eclipsed by all of them having boyfriends and not being non-monogamous hobags (which I think I love most of all).

But my friend Heidi gave me a bottle of whiskey last night as a long-waylaid prezzie, so things are looking up ever-so-slightly.