Alright, so I just wrote this whole thing once already, but this fucking Mexican computer froze up and I lost everything. So fuck it, how did I begin? oh yes, like this.
You know what? Fuck this fucking blog? I tried to delete all the gay black man stuff Trevor put up, and it wonīt leave, I delete the entries and theyīre still there. Fuck that and fuck Trevor. I just wrote a beginning about how schoolīs over and how I went to the Soloman Burke show, but thereīs better versions of all that shit scattered here , so those paragraphs were pointlesss, and I donīt really care about that any way. Fuck em. So then I wrote about Amy Beyers being an alcoholic, I even melted her name in to Alchoholics Anoymous, something like Alcholics Amynonymous or something else along those lines, fucking drunk. But thatīs not really what Iīm thinking about. yeah I couldnīt care, so what, sheīs a drunk, Iīm in Mexico now, everyoneīs a drunk here.
So yes! Iīm in Mexico, at a CIBERCAFE in Playa del Carmen. Itīs raining and itīs hard to be tourist scum in the rain, you know. A surpise tropical depression? sounds like kind of vacation. So one may ask, if all this rain is a surprise, why arenīt standing under an umbrella outside watching a potential wet t-shirt contest of tourist scum who were wearing white shirts for the climate and all? Well, I donīt know why Iīm not doing that, but now that I thought about it, Iīll periodically check out that window to my left, peer over that small yet well dressed Mexican child in hopes of you know seeing a nipple or something. So the internet here is a sweet deal, a dollar for each hour of high speed internet. I donīt even need to convert my cash to pesosī, every establishment takes American money, with a 10-1 exchange rate, prices are easy to convert. So every place takes U.S. cash, I pay for my beach beverages with cash every day, and oh man does that make my day. I bought a leather cowboy hat for 18 bucks, I figure itīs a fine deal for a top hat, those bitches cost a lot in America, no joke, just step in to your local hattery and see how often you come out empty-handed. So yeah yeah yeah, I got a loser henna tattoo. Yes, I agree theyīre for wusses who wonīt get real tattoos, but you know, I had to do something. So I got the DC scene slut 3 nautical stars ala the flag. I got them at the top of my chest, similar to the picture of the guy on the back of the new Majority Rule CD excpet without all the emo īlast night and impossible dreamsīshit. So thatīs pretty much what Iīve spent my cash on, cowboy hat, bad henna tattoo, rum & cokes plus glass bottles of regular coke and the ice cream bars that were my breakfasts back in Spain a couple years ago. yeah, the ice cream bars called Mega and Magnum, yeah yeah, they sound like condoms but taste delicous. Best ice cream bar in the market.
It took a while, but with patience came success. The first several days of this vacation, I hadnīt seen any wild European breasts, it was a huge fucking disappointment, I mean I remembered Mexican beaches as being littered with topless euro-trash walking with their topless euro-trash mothers. I remember getting sun burnt beyond belief because I stayed in the ocean too long trying to get what I thought was a boner down. But yesterday, all the waiting paid off, it was like the jackpot of this type of deviance. Two young european chicks (Iīll pretend they were sisters) lying naked on the sand with their shiny near-model bodies. One was reading a book the other had her head to the side with a pair sunglasses resmembling two spoons. so whoa, is she looking at me? Better take my thumb out of my mouth, I knew I should have tied my shoes today or at least worn socks. Donīt worry bro, Iīll just look real fucking cool as I walk past them, shit!, past them? Theyīre behind me? But I didnīt get a chance to you know stare a lot, I was too busy looking at my untied shoes. Alright Iīll casually turn around, I sure hope it isnīt a topless beach faux pas to turn around to check the pair of european cuties. Alright now Iīve walked to far, so how about I sit over by that wall where the tide rolls up and pretend Iīm playing with this glass bottle and that shit, uhh , sand. So I sit in the sand for an hour, casually glancing at the two chicks while I drip wet sand on the glass bottle pretending Iīm Pollack. I really lost it when the girls ran on the shore together only in their small bottom pieces, it was like whoa, it was quite fucking impressive. you know, someday Iīll see breasts in person like for free.
So I left my razor at home, and let my beard grow this trip. No, Iīm not trying to be Lichman, Huber, ZZ top, or Erich Martel. Iīll tell you why I feel comfortable with this ugly hairy neck thing. Iīll pretend I look like that guy from that fine HBO series Six Feet Under, no not the gay guy, the cool one Nate, with the beard type thing. Well Nateīs girfriendīs manic-depressive brother has similar facial hair, so fuck it, I mean I left the razor behind and I would never shave with a razor that has LESS THAN THREE BLADES . Because I look such a derelict motherfucker with the unshaven-ness and the JRussell hair sometimes in a bandana NYHC style, I keep getting offered drugs. In the streets itīs usually the casual approach of Hey man, letīs get high or You want to smoke some shit? . When I go in to a store the guys who own the places always ask Is there anything you want that you donīt see, because I have that thing that you want that you didnīt see in the store. Just tell me what you want and Iīll give you that weed, I mean that thing you want that you donīt see, you know what Iīm talking about . Since most of the stores have wooden pipes that look like penises or have carvings people fucking, a couple times the dudes were like You want a pipe or maybe youīre looking for you know something to put in the pipe, I know youīre looking for something to smoke with your girlfriend Iīve all kinds of stories about Mexican pot, Huber and my dad talk about shitty brick-packed Mexican pot and apparently my grandfather used to run a truck down in to Baja California to pick up truck loads of cheap Mexican pot, I donīt have much of an urge at all to consider any of this meixcan shit. So I wish I had some hepcat CDs because thatīs the vibe down here. I have no idea what day it is or what time it is off the top of my head. I have no one to talk to though.
This was much better, the first time I wrote it
I tried to recreate the key points of the original, but the fucker froze and lost whatīs there. Iīll be back in DC soon enough to answer for myself, whatever this blog fucking sucks
A) in comparison to the others
B) because I canīt get rid of that trevor martin graffiitti thatīs all over my blog, you know Fuck you Trevor, this is why Iīm sticking with livejournal. Thereīs a shorter analysis of my Mexican trip up here
Looks I chose the most inopportune time to scratch my balls.
