Computer-assisted suicide

Metal devil cookies. More damn Christians. Millions of dead cops. Magnus dominus corpus. My dear consultants. Whatever take you wanna take, bottom line is John Wayne was a colon-impacted faggot and there ain't nothing anyone can do about it. The evening panned out a little askewed from how I planned it, but Jesse assisted in the shenanigans and all's well that ends well according to some of yesteryear's bards. There ain't gonna be no Japanese SUV riding the whole whip between here and Orlando with a loaded Beretta 92 on the shotgun seat. This ain't gonna be no slicing of veins -- I'm just gonna sit here till my eyes bleed and the bum who thought I was Phil keeps it in his pants and dies a quiet death in a Magic City alley. I told you it was gonna be shiny, but nobody listened. Now I'm gonna make a phone call I promised sometime yesterday and the receiver's not gonna be much too happy from the garbled mess I'm gonna leave in her voice box. I got another parking ticket and this one I'll pay. The eternity that was so brilliant has lacked in luster lately and the guilt that flowers afterwards can find itself directions later. Poets, priests, painters, phlegm -- it's all there. You gotta seek it.