win big.

i wanna be a billionaire so fuckin' bad. heck, i'd handle a hundred grand with great grace. really fly it high. seriously, there is so much i'd do with that kind of pie and mash; as would nigh on everybody, i imagine. but it remains in the hands of some of the most crooked, evil, backwards people in the world. so i made a list, took note of the fact that chance would be a mighty fine thing, took note of the fact that this would remain entirely separate from the ongoing development that is my bucket list - and started dreaming.

a dream i've had since i was old enough to appreciate the beauty of fast shit is one that i would like to physically achieve. with or without the aid of a mass lotto victory. i want to get on over to the states with my dad. buy a 1968 mercury cyclone 428 cobra jet. do it up all golden (not the literal, the positive state). and drive all over america with him. he suggested he'd rather do it in a motor-home. which may symbolise his age a little too much for my liking, but i think i could come up with some form of compromise. maybe it'll have to be the south of france and a dash of italy. who knows! let's dream on.

we're down to our last 5 weeks.

and i'll let you all be the reason i can't get any closer to myself then where i stand and where i fall. it's all the same from half way up - so far from bottom and from top. but it's not enough. come friday, come winter, come weekends; i'm better - i'm faster. i'm higher. i'm stronger. i'm brighter. i'll sooner stop middle-manning all my friends and build my own crab-shack half way up and/or down the same mountain your old man said you should never venture. where t. i. p. be kicking at!

i'm sure you all fight the same apathy that disguises itself in a comfy orangey-red couch, whispering in your ear sweet little lies. about how not important that sunshine outside is - make sure you can still stand in 5 years, fuckers. and when ninjas start folding their own laundry, you know it's time to go for beers with the boys. just ask yourself what you would do without it? you will see it's not far off from shooting up behind a dumpster on a monday morning. but kick it like a G, not too hard - just enough to maintain a good high. like a functioning heroin addict. the phone plan junkie: the proverbial evenings and weekends. you on point, tip?

i already feel like deleting this whole paragraph of shit. i write as if i'm sat in front of a mirror just to stare in awe at how terribly awesome i am. it's the personal propaganda that, buying into, will only get me killed. or at least better looking.

chick chick... pow.