Break out the Heroin -:- OR -:- Submitted for Your Approval: A Falling Horse

Does anyone want to help write a rock opera? We should definitely write a rock opera. And then be in it. As Undead Presidents. I suggest we open with a montage—projected onto the stage—of the Bush presidency, the falling of the towers, American tanks rolling around the desert, etc., and some heavy guitars that convey an aura of confusion and desperation and intensity, and then lights come up on a graveyard, and we claw our ways to the surface, dressed as undead presidents, ready to take back the nation.

All lines, of course, will be sung:

LINCOLN: This nation is fuckkkkked!

ROOSEVELT (Rominger?): It's compleeetly fuckkkkkkked!

KENNEDY (Andy?): Yes, straight up fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkked (sustained--)

I need to get back to work on the zombie story . . . blargh. I have no focus.

Just had to write a job description for "creative writer." I never thought that would actually come in. I should have just mailed the guy a bottle of paramount rum and told him to drink it all, fast, and swallow whatever pills might be handy. And, if possible, stand at the top of the nearest staircase.

I feel incredibly hermitlike lately . . . anyone want to do anything tonight? I'm essentially below the poverty line now, so that idea we had about sniffing lines of powdered gold will probably not work. Also, I had to sell the powdered ivory. And the batch of poached rhinos we were keeping in my bedroom escaped when I ran out of . . . rhino food. But not before they gored me straight in the crotch.

Wouldn't it be great if there were a water fountain but instead of water it shot out chocolate cake. By gum, that's where I'd be now, face bukkaked with chocolate batter. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Today I start actually applying to grad schools. If I don't make it into any of these places, not even booze is going to save me. Someone's going to have to break out the heroin.