Rico Amore Presents

I think it's my competitive nature (of course I'm talking about golf here), but whatever the cause, I simply can't make it. I hope you'll understand. And anyway, my lone reader, I'm sure if I were there I would be a total asshole, getting dee-runk and shouting some incoherent babble followed by shouting "this is america gaadammit" and then throwing up on your best friend's shoes and telling your other friends that their favorite ___________ ( fill in with band, pet, color, restaurant, movie, book, tv show, brand of cigarette, political leanings, supermarket, fruit or vegetable, clothes and or shoe brand, etc. ad nauseam ) sucks balls in the most profound way. So, the way I look at it - I'm doing you a huge favor. You're welcome. 

The house was hot as usual, the smell was gone for the most part, there was a mess in the kitchen, and the dirty clothes on the floor were starting to form a coalition. Moths kept appearing from nowhere making me think that all of my nice wool suits were being eaten, not that I cared - I haven't worn a suit in a while and it's not looking like I was going to in the near future. Sleeping is still a problem. I am not sure why, but getting up around five in the am is starting to suck balls. After a few minutes with the fan on the house should cool down. Must resist the temptation to drink a tasty clamato PBR. Must stay fresh for this week and next. Must keep writing about how the end of the world is not near - not by a fucking long shot. The misery index is barely starting to peek its head out of its shell.  If each day is a reason to smile then each day is a reason to make me a grilled cheese - cuz that shit would make me smile.  The low rattle of the fan starts to get on my nerv

I have only been off for a week and I nearly died after three meeting in one day. I know I won't get a lot of sympathy from this crowd but still, jeezus.