i have this sick picture of myself, which serves as motivation to work out. if i wasn't scared of someone walking into my room and seeing the picture with their own two eyes (or one eye, tragic accident with sharp pencil or factory-type workplace accident permitting) i'd blow it up into poster-sized proportions but for now, i'll just keep it hidden for my own viewing dis-pleasure.
back in the day, the day when i was young and still had baby-teeth, i played t-ball. we had a dark purple shirt with sponsors on the back and our team name on the front. i wore a pink visor to practices but had to take it off when i played. i had a nice summer glow and tanned arms. i have a button of me in my t-ball prime, posing with the bat over my left shoulder. i look so precious, and innocent, and non-athletic. i want to pick me up, and to hug the little girl that was me seventeen years ago.
i need money, and i need it now. how else am i supposed to support my pancheros addiction? at this point, i'm willing to fund this obsession using my credit card, but that puppy is getting mighty full (as well as my belly) and this probably won't be a viable option for much longer. my next thought is to go around campus collecting cans, seeing as how there must be a surplus of empty mountain dews in the business college now that Ernie has died. Let's see, to fund a quesidilla-a-day diet, that would require about 300 cans a week... hmm, quite possible...
we are having a t-shirt party Saturday night. all who read are invited. do not mistake for a grafitti party (in which you wear a white t-shirt and people draw either boobs or a penis on your shirt with markers) this is a TSHIRT party. meaning you buy a tshirt made by us and get a cup for free. 5 bucks. the tshirts come out great, i went to one of their parties (when i didn't live here) and got one that said:
IT DOESN'T COUNT... HE WAS A FRESHMAN
made with iron-ons, not hand drawn or anything. quality work. should be a good time. come over! 118 Beech.
that's all i have for now... talk to you beautiful people later. (after i gag myself with a spoon.)