There's a piano in the street.

I have a crush on the Emily Watson. She's so lovely, and I'm sure she'd like me if she got to know me. She's not a racist like every other girl who doesn't like me.

Speaking of racists, the fucking weather is a racist. Because as soon as I got to work today, it stopped raining. And as soon as it was time to leave work, it started again. And there was a non-precipitous break during my time in the store. A non-precipitous break indeed. It's a conspiracy man, and it's not the first time it has happened.

Also on the topic of racism, in lieu of "hello," I've said to my father the past two days, "what's up, my nigga?" I'm don't think he appreciates it when I say that. He likes it when I throw in curses every so often, like the big bad F-curse. But I suppose racial epithets aren't his bag.

I really don't like talking to my coworker Evelhin on account everything she says to me is: a) incoherent; and b) irrelevant to anything ever. She murmurs all this stuff to me that I don't care about. Like today she kept talking about desserts that she likes. And I'm like, "what?" So she keeps saying things about desserts, and I nod and agree.

I've been making a fat pig of myself lately. I wake up and eat everything in sight that is remotely edible or resembles something that can be eaten. Like the other day I ate my own throw up. Don't tell anyone. So I'm a fat P.O.S. at the moment, and I have to find a way to curb my appetite. My appetite for destruction. And delicious buttered bacon and baconed sausage sandwiches.

Sometimes I wish I got hit by a car or struck by lightening. Hit by a car would be good. For sympathy and an awesome story. Or shot with a gun.

Let me tell you something about Roland Kirk...