Take advice from fuckups.they're the only ones that can tell you about the bottom & how to avoid it


Friday, April 30, 2010

St. Louis SUCKS

I've been trying to kickstart some kind of underground writing cred, but I have no idea how to go about it. An editor that I'm friends with on face book has been trying to get me in the door through some publications out of my area, and it inspired me to take the initiative to look into papers and magazines out of St. Louis.
I've spent the past three hours sifting through what is available to me around here only to find that everything is so drab, boring, and stupid that not only do I not want any part of it, but I believe it's pretty safe to assume that they wouldn't want any part in publishing my writing. Most of my writing is stimulating as well as nauseating, to say the least, and I'm more than sure that anything I have to offer will be inevitably turned down out of the yeasayer's fear of being offensive to its readers.
As far as the scenes go in St. Louis, it seems to me that everything is severely outdated. The entire city-even the hippest of the hip-appears to be stuck in a time warp of whatever was cool about a decade prior to whatever the current may be. The closest thing to being remotely cool or edgy is St. Louis' punk rock/rockabilly scene, which has been flourishing since the late eighties (again I say, a decade past its fresh expiration date), and I'm so sick of so-called punk rock and rockabilly hipsters that I could puke. The punk rockers and rockabilly people around here (and I'm sure in other places, also) are either dumb kids going through a phase or dried up douches that need to move past the phase, but refuse to. The underground hip hop/B-boy scene may as well have had a fork stuck in it when all of the thugs ruined the only weekly event that showcased the culture by turning it into a brawl one too many times. There are still plenty of hippies, but, uh, who wants to hang around hippies. I'm not even gonna give the new wave of indie hipsters any of my words to describe what pretentious, stupid assholes they are...so there you have it.
So, the writing sucks, the music sucks, the fashion sucks. The trends are behind, the scenes have no pulse, and the overall culture of the city is shrinking by the minute. I mean what kind of city is this to not have any weirdos? Even the artfags are stiff. Every community is so cliche and ripped-off. Or is it that I'm just an old snob?

Thursday, April 29, 2010

The Mother's Day Edition...VIDEOS!

My mom threw a knife at me once...but she wasn't aiming to miss.

I saw this and pissed myself in laughter.

I have a feeling that this is gonna be me in 20 years.

If he had just killed his mumsies first, he may have saved the lives of all of the rest of the people he killed...

This really reminds me of my mom. Bigtime.

This is pretty serious.



Men and women are much too different
they cannot live among each other

The men will rape and murder each other out of existence
the women will die out while they dyke out.

Missionary heterosexual fucking will be made a Class X felony.
Sodomy will become a family passtime

-for there will be NO family

No more aunts, uncles, or parents
No more doomed children

Like packs of dogs and gangs in male prisons
down for the cause of survival and escape

-from the shackles oF the atmosphere

funerals will be obsolete
as the population reacts to the change

like a roach infested trailer being fogged
mass pires pushed off the coasts in barges.

Monday, April 26, 2010

The Tattoo, The Fugitive, and the Cocaine Hurricane

I have a tattoo on my left forearm. I usually hide it whenever people ask to see it. The truth is it's a tribute to someone whom I was very deeply in love with. I actually got it after we broke up, so it's not like it was just some thing I got in a desperate attempt to make some guy stick around. It says "** Lovesick P.V." (the P.V. stands for por vida, which is Spanish for "for life"). The "P" kind of looks like an "R", which really sucks. The guy that gave me the tattoo was super drunk and high on crack, so I should have known he was gonna fuck it up. When I got the tattoo I was confused as to whether or not I would include his name, his alias, or his nickname, which was Jay, so I settled for **. There are even more complicated reasons for why I couldn't have his real name on my body in plain sight.

The man that people in the Carbondale area knew as "***" or "****" didn't know that he had a huge secret. ****'s real name was ****** and he was two years older than what any of his identifation documents claimed he was. He grew up in Houston, Texas since the age of two after his family migrated from Guatemala. ****** mostly lived in the rough barrios of Southeast Houston and eventually adapted to the life of a Southeast Crip, a branch of the Crips gang that includes Latinos as well as blacks. Selvin and his brother in law were street soldiers that dealt in cocaine transactions and burglaries of large businesses. After some shit went down involving a search warrant and a paper bag full of cocaine found in his brother in law's closet, **** snatched up a girl to keep him company, paid someone to allow him to steal their identity, and fled to Illinois to start his new life as Jacob. After becoming homesick, the girl left him to go back to Texas. **** became complacent with his new straight life and inevitably went back to what he knew, which was slinging dope and other criminal means of making extra money. That's around the time I came into the picture.

We had an on again off again chaotic romance, and after I had moved out of his place, I sold a bit of coke for him here and there. I used this time of drug dealing as a means to prove my loyalty to him, and showed him that I could turn his dope into two times the cash than anyone else could.

The thing was that there were two Mexican guys that lived down the street from me who wanted my ass. These guys didn't even do coke, but they would buy my product from me or bring me customers just for an excuse to give me money. They would have their friends come to my trailer on payday. They would have all just recently cashed their checks and ready to party. I sold them a couple of light grams for 250 bucks, later moved on to selling them tiny pinches of unmeasured shit for 50 bucks a piece. Since they were illegal aliens and didn't know anyone else who could sell them anything decent, they never bitched. I was totally ripping them off. Besides that, they were married and I would allow them to do their partying at my house so that their wives wouldn't bitch. After they would make their purchases, they would allow me to liberally partake in their purchased portions of shit, also, so, in other words, their dumb asses were lining my pockets full of cash and getting me fucked up as all well.

After a weekend of slinging I had literally turned only five grams of shit into 950 bucks. My guy wouldn't come and pick up his cash, and I didn't want to have the shit in my pocket anymore. I was afraid I was going to start spending it. I couldn't get a hold of him, so I decided to hitch hike to his place and give him his money. It was a rough journey. It was fucking cold outside and I had to trek mostly through rural roads to get to his house that was an hour away from my start point. I got there about seven hours later, exhausted and hungry.

I noticed I could hear another voice in the house when I had arrived at his door. It, of course, was a female voice. (I later found out it was his new 15 year old crack head girlfriend he was getting to stick around for crack) Nice. I should have at that point got back into the vehicle that was waiting on me and took his fucking money, but I didn't know what kind of a shit storm he could have caused if I had done such a thing. Besides that, I loved him. I wanted to make him proud of me for making him so much money. I waved for my ride to go on, and pounded on his door like a nut bitch until he came to it. I walked into the house, and we ended up physically fighting.

Somehow, we ended up back out on the front porch where he ended up knocking me down. When I fell, my face landed on a cinder block...CRACK. I could hear the bones in my face break and smell the blood spurting from the side of my head. Then I passed out.
I woke up in an unfamiliar vehicle in front of the hospital. I was in the backseat, with him. He was yelling at me to get out, but I was really dizzy and felt like I couldn't talk. He told the driver to leave the hospital and take me somewhere else, but I couldn't make out where because they were all speaking fucking Spanish. He dropped me off at his best friend's house and told him to take care of me. Whilst his buddy was helping me out of the car, I stopped and turned back to the car. I threw his money in his face and spit on the ground.

At the hospital I was told that my orbital was shattered and that I might need surgery. I just thought, "Yeah, how the fuck am I supposed to pay for that?" I never visited the doctor whom they had referred me to. I couldn't even afford to get the prescription filled for the pain killers they prescribed me. I stayed the next few days recouping at his buddy's house. His buddy, *****, didn't know a lick of English, and I had no way of telling him that ***** wasn't fully responsible for the injury. He would call their mutual buddies into the room I was resting in and make them look at me, like "Look what he did to her". I was in so much pain the next few days, but I got through it and eventually returned home. I still have problems with my peripheral vision and slight facial paralysis from the injury, and the older I get the more I can see it. I'm glad no one else can really notice it.

After our real break up, ***** and I kept in touch. Anytime I needed anything, money, food, or someone to talk to, he would speed to my side. After I became pregnant he would swoop me up and take me places to get food that would aleviate my hormonal-induced cravings. On Thanksgiving night '06 went went out, got burgers, and sat in the park where we had a pretty deep conversation about how fucked both of our lives were. We had our first real kiss in months that night when he dropped me home. I had no idea that it would be the last time I'd ever see him. Later on I found out that he was picked up on a petty warrant after the police were called on him during an explosive arguement with his then girlfriend. They began fighting over the fact that she had led on that her child that he had been helping her to raise belonged to him and when he found out that she had been lying all hell broke loose. When he was taken in on the warrant his fingerprints gave him away in that he was a fugitive and the jig was up. He was sent back to Harris County, TX to await trial. That's the story I gathered from the random chance meetings I had with his former friends since then, anyway.

Last April, I began having very vivid dreams about ****. These dreams were never sexual in nature, but were weird and disjointed. In one of them **** and I were making our way through an actively devastating hurricane in a place where there were crowds of Latino-looking people. The dreams left me insanely curious as to the whereabouts of this man. I have been having them up to three times a week ever since.

After waking up from yet another dream about **** this morning I decided to google his name for the umpteenth time to see what I could find out. I ended up stumbling upon a video response from his sister that was in Spanish. I made out the words the best I could and figured out that it was a plea from her asking people to pray for her brother who was being deported back to Guatemala in 30 days if her family could not come up with money to hire an immigration attorney. There were no additional responses, and hers was left in late February. 30 days from when the comment was left would have fallen right around the time I had started having the dreams.

I started to research the deportation of Guatemalan immigrants in the US and found that thousands are being sent back to Guatemala in droves. Some of them are children and sick people raised most of their ives in the US that are exposed after hospital admissions, which means they are being sent back injured and sick without proper treatment. Guatemala was recovering from a bloody civil war and a devastating hurricane, but with the flooding of all the deportees and the victims of the hurricane needing relief, the country (one of the 10 poorest countries in the world) simply cannot endure it. The deportation population exlosion is almost like a inverted version of the Cuban refugee crisis in the eighties. Instead of people flocking to a country to seek opporotunity, people are being thrown back in massive volume to a country with virtually no opporotunity. I know that I will never find him, but I feel as if he is telepathically crying out for my help or sympathy. I wonder if the dreams will ever stop, or if he is even still alive.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Yeah, I'm A Nutjob.

I think it's pretty apparent that I'm not the picture of mental or emotional health, but believe me when I say I used to be waaaaay worse. I feel really guilty and stupid about all of the creepy, stupid, and nutty shit I've pulled in the past. I thought, maybe if I wrote about it that I wouldn't feel so embarassed about it anymore.

Psycho Girlfriend
I'd say that in the past couple of years I've gotten a lot better about not being such a crazy bitch when it comes to relationships. I'm totally guilty of threatening suicide anytime some dick I was "in love" with wanted to start fucking someone else or leave me. I used to call this one guy until he answered his phone, which would sometimes be a ridiculous amount of incessant and obsessive calling. I've pounded on doors, crying and begging for explainations on why they weren't with me. I've gotten in fights after finding dudes with other girls in public places. I've feigned pregnancies and tragedies as a means to gain some kind of sympathy or sign of concern out of men. When I was a teenager, I'd fall in love with every guy that I gave a blowjob to, and really believed that they might date me someday if I let them fuck me or suck their dick. I don't know what exactly made me stop this behavior, but when I look back on it I feel so ashamed and wonder why I would torture myself by obsessing over these men that didn't love or even want me.
Compulsive Masturbation
Okay, so I still jack off a lot, but not nearly as much as I used to. I know the reason for my doing this is because of my being molested and whatnot. When I was little (pre-pubescent) I would write really dirty letters to boys I knew (most of the time my brother's older friends) and then read them and jack off to them. I also used to draw pictures of tits, cunts, and dicks for my own perverted reasons.
Suicide Attempts
The first time I tried to commit suicide I was 5 or 6. I tried to hang myself from a coathook in my bedroom. I'm not sure what set me off. The second time I was 13. I drank two bottles of iodine with a Coca-Cola chaser after my dad beat the shit out of me for "smelling like cigarettes" when I had honestly not been smoking. I'll never forget the taste of that awful shit. It was years before I could drink Coke again without it making me think of that retched taste. I've worthlessly slashed my wrists two different times, but just couldn't do it deeply enough. I barely even left any scars. I've attempted to commit suicide two different times on someone who fucked me over's property so that they would have to find my body and look really bad when the cops showed up pulling out a dead girl. Obviously, I didn't die. I feel stupid every day for not being successful and pissed off that the last time I planned out how I was going to steal a gun to blow my brains out someone beat me to ganking the gat.
I used to be terrible about digging through people's shit. It was at its worst when I was about 13 or 14. My brother's then girlfriend had a lot of boxes in our basement and I used to dig through them. I found her abortion paperwork, sex toys, and porn. She was about six sizes smaller than me, but I'd try on her clothes. I'd read her old love letters, snoop through her documents, and use her perfume. One day I got busted and she was REALLY pissed. I still feel guilty about it to this very day. When I was in high school I would skip class to go out in the parking lot and dig around in people's cars. Sometimes if I hadn't slept for days I'd take naps in them. Sometimes I'd stay at school after everyone left and just dig in people's lockers. I don't know why I found it so entertaining. It was stupid. It wasn't like anyone had anything worth stealing. The one time I did steal, I ended up going to jail for two years. Over a fucking CD Walkman. That sure did make me not want to have much to do with that anymore. Plus, the older I got, I realized that going through people's shit usually just made me find out shit about them that I didn't want to know, so eventually, I completely gave it up. I found a new thing to dig through called the internet. Ha ha.
I have a compulsion to pick at my skin. I started at my scalp because it was always covered by my hair, but later on moved to other areas of my body. Most of the time I just try to keep with the picking of blemishes or already formed scabs, but when I can't find any, I'll make new ones. Every once in a while, I'll occupy myself for well over an hour doing this. Sometimes when I start running the water for a shower I'll take my clothes off and start picking. By the time I stop and get into the shower, the water will have already begun to run cold.
Okay, I'm not completely over this one yet. Sometimes I'll be telling someone or a group of people about an event or a story and if I sense that they're not interested in it enough I'll find myself beginning to exaggerate or adding fabricated parts to it. After I realize what I'm doing, it's too late, and I can't take it back. Then I'll feel really guilty and stupid about it for years afterward. The last time I did this was in December and I haven't done it since. I'm starting to learn how to catch myself when the lie wheels start turning in my brain. I really hope that I get a handle on this because I don't want to end up like my mother. As far back as I can remember, my mom has lied about everything from what she does when she's gone to the color of her own shit. Sometimes I'll hear her on the phone with someone lying her fucking ass off about something she knows that I know the truth about, but her knowing that I'm there does nothing to stop her. I've gotten to the point where I just don't ask her about anything anymore because I know that it's going to lead to having to hear a big string of lies.
Wow. Now that I've finished writing this I do kind of realize that this stuff isn't as bad as what I thought it was. It did help to write about it. I'm glad I did. I know so many more people that are way more fucked up than I am. Whew.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Hope, Faith, and Charity

I can't count how many times I have been told that I need to "have faith in something" so that I can be a "happier person," "believe in a god", or "give people a chance to explain their beliefs." Who the fuck are any of humans to tell me that what I need as a human being in order to have hope or to be happy/fulfilled? Who are they to tell me that I should have to sit through their bullshit so that I can "better understand" the reason why they believe what they believe? I KNOW what I need to know about damned near every huge religion there is, and I know that it's all bullshit. I don't need to listen to any more of it than I already have throughout my life. I UNDERSTAND the reason why they choose to follow the religions that they choose to follow. For the same reasons that they choose to follow these bullshit doctorines, I WISH that a god actually existed that loved everyone. I WISH that I could be stupid, ignorant, and delusional enough to believe that some great being is watching over me and the rest of the world, protecting us all. But alas, there isn't. It's not simply just my belief, it's a fucking fact. I'm tired of being told that I need to be delusional to have hope. You know what would give me some hope? It would give me hope to know that other people like me could be within my reach to be my friends. It would give me faith in love and mercy, things that DO exist within most humans, if I knew that I could have real people in my life (not just on the internet) that shared some of my opinions. I would be more likely to accept people for who they are if most of the ones I'm surrounded by weren't weren't so unbelievably stupid...and I would be less reluctant to give my love to others if I knew they had the decent enough morals not to judge me for my lifestyle, lack of income, or being unmotivated to be ruled by money and religion as it seems so many people are.
In other words, so-called "people of faith", are what help to make me faithless. I just finished watching a video. In the video, an atheist was trying to eplain to a Christian how we are all as decent human beings morally superior to any God. He then compared a father-role-playing God to that of a human parent, and asked the Christian if he, as a father, would ever torture his children for not loving him. The Christian man, of course, replied "no", but failed to realize, no matter how well the atheist attempted to explain the theory, that this is exactly what Christians, Jews, and Muslims believe that their God is capable of doing. "I'm god, love me or burn in hell." How does that make any sense?
I know plenty of Christians that "tithe" their money to a church, like they're doing some kind of good for humanity by buying their church a sound system. Oh, but it isn't about being good to humanity...it's about being good to GOD...what the fucking cockshit? Why don't these people, if they're such morally awesome folks, give that money to someone who needs gas, food, clothing, or shelter? That's immoral, if you ask me.
I've also been told by these types of people that I'm immoral for being lazy, sucking on pussies, or doing drugs, and that because have anything to do with this stuff I don't have any morals. That's such bullshit. I have a good heart. I don't enjoy watching people suffer. I don't want to hurt anyone. I make an effort to make people I am around comfortable. I'm good to animals, people, and children and just because I choose to not be friends with someone, like to kill my pain, enjoy having FUN, and don't like to work for assholes that help to ruin people's lives does not mean that I don't have any morals. Y'all need to check on what you believe to be "morals". Oh, and then suck my asshole.


Friday, April 16, 2010

My Days As A Barfly

Lately I've been looking back on the time I was a bar rag. I've come to realize that those were desperate, lonely days, but sometimes I miss it. I didn't have any friends then, but I could always count on the few old drunks that would frequent my bar to be there, waiting with a draft mug, to talk about love, life, sex, kids, disappointment, and regret. They always seemed to appreciate my love for music, and were more than happy to loan me a few bucks for the jukebox to play the old songs that they could never remember either the artists or titles of. We'd always snarl at the groups of young people, even though I myself was young. I very rarely went home with any of the men or women that breezed through the place, but I was always called a tramp or a slut for hanging around old men. Those non-professionals just didn't get it. They couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that I was more welcome by the old crowd since I had been through more than most of them probably ever will experience within their entire lives. If I didn't have a dime, either the bartender or my fellows would pay my way to a buzz. That old hellhole was my asylum.
After a few years, the bartenders changed, the dope dealers moved, the payday crowd stopped cashing their checks there (probably because the dope dealers moved), the kids took over the jukebox, the mugs were replaced with disposable plastic cups, a couple of my drinking partners died, and I had since joined a clique of attractive women my own age to drink with on the weekends. Now that I have once again grown complacent with the meaning of friendship and everything that goes along with it, I kind of wish that I still had that place within walking distance of me. Every once in a while when I'm in town, I'll spend the evening in there with the fixtures. They're always happy to see me, but never hesitate to tell me how happy they are that I've found a way out of the scene. No one understands how I need a dive bar to call home in times like these. If anyone goes there with me they complain of how boring it is because there's no bands and barely any young people. They don't understand that's what I'm trying to escape. The lousy cover bands, the gaggles of cologne/perfume doused young to middle aged working crowd, the weekend warriors...they nauseate me. I'd rather be with the people like me that are biding their time for death. The ones that aren't picky about the beer they're drinking or the fact that it doesn't come in a longkneck bottle. Sometimes I need those funny-smelling places with the filthy concrete floors.


Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Serial Killer Ex

I had a boyfriend named Tim.
He seemed like an alright guy, til I lived with him for a few months and began to find out a lot of disturbing shit about him.
He had a porn addiction. Not just regular old porn, though...It was simulated borderline child porn. The girls would have braces and pigtails, VERY small breasts, etc.
He had an obsession with cumming on girls' faces.
He used to take me on drives and once we got to remote areas he would drive erratically, exceeding speeds of 110 mph, and would laugh when I got scared or cried.
A few times when we were having sex, he would choke, slap or punch me...not playfully, either...he drew blood.
Sometimes he would ask to drag me to bed by my hair. He wanted me to fight on the way there. When I'd decline, he'd become angry and leave.
Sometimes, "as a joke", he would make really disturbing comments toward me, like, "I'm gonna cut your head off," "I'm gonna strangle you," or "How 'bout I stab you in the chest?" ...I really think he meant it.
He had a really weird relationship with his mother. She kept ALL of his money, and controlled his finances. Sometimes she would come over unannounced, and just walk into the house. If we locked the door, she'd get pissed off.
I had him arrested once for hitting me. While I was in the police station filling out my reports, she arrived. She was very rude to me, called me a liar, and then proceeded to try to bribe the jail into letting him go. There was a 72 hr. hold on him...it wasn't the first time.
Every time an attractive woman was on a commercial or something, he would make the same disturbing comments. "How bout I split you with my cock," "Shut the fuck up and die, you whore..."
When we broke up, I kept some of the simulated kiddie porn just in case I ever heard of any girls going missing.
I don't claim to be "psychic", but something about our bedroom scared me. It didn't only scare me, but it also scared my best friend who used to stay over a lot. The other day, I was talking about it with her, and we both touched on the fact that we were creeped out by the closet. I always wondered if maybe something happened in there that left behind some kind of bad mojo. Or what if it just hadn't happened yet?

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Saturday, April 10, 2010

A Picked Scab

Every time I feel like I'm beginning to heal from the wounds I've been left with something comes along that grazes the areas just enough to open them back up. I received some nauseating confirmation yesterday concerning my abuser. It was elucidated that what I had always feared is true...I wasn't the only victim. To make matters worse, this other victim I have been informed of is a family member that I have always been very close to.
Coincidentally, it was also brought to my attention by a mutual friend and family member the same day that this other victim is having a really hard time. He's suicidal, having fits of rage, and self-mutilating. After hearing of this I asked my friend if he knew anything about the abuse. He did. He then told me what he remembered hearing about it, and it turns out that our abuser also included me in the abuse. As soon as this was said to me, I remembered parts of it. What's even more disturbing is that I remember both of us being punished by our mothers for being naked in the front yard afterward. I remember the both of us being chased with swatting sticks. The dirty part of it never popped into my head. I think that at the time, we were so innocent in our intentions that the sexual aspect of the event is something I can't recall.
I immediately felt guilt and nausea. Then, of course, I felt all-consuming anger. I wish I could track this fucker down and castrate him. How many more are there? How many people has he ruined? How many poor children have since grown to be neurotic, self-harming catastrophies because this piece of shit wanted to get his jollies off? I don't know what to do. I wish I could help, but I can't if I don't even know who all of them are. It's not like I can just go around asking every kid I used to be around "Hey, did my dad molest you?" I feel overwhelmed with guilt. But what could I have done? What can I do? What if this guy is still in business? I don't know what can be done to ensure that there are no more victims. This shit happened to us over 20 years ago. I can't have him incarcerated. I don't know if he's around any more children that he can hurt. I have no way of finding out, either. I feel so powerless.
Not only do I feel guilty and powerless, all of this is also bringing up so many feelings of worthlessness. I now know that all of these adults in my family knew that me and this other kid were abused but they did nothing to take me from that awful place nor did they report anything about the shit that happened to the other victim. It makes me feel like such a disgusting piece of shit to know that I wasn't worth saving. They left me to live with this fucking abusive pedophile for the remainder of my childhood.
I have to do something. I'm being ravaged with vengefulness. I just want to make this fuck pay. But how can I?

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Infectious Grooves

Digital Versicolor by Glass Candy

I have the entire layout for a music video to this song in my head. It can only be described as an "orgy of color".

Just Wait Til Next Year by John Maus

Okay, I've gotta tell people about this guy because I think he's becoming a big deal to me. He's so weird, elusive and enigmatic. He makes this rad music as a one man band by night, and he's a professor of political philosophy at Hawaii University by day. I don't get him, but at the same time, I totally do. He makes my brain hurt and I like it.

All Come To Meet Her by Skip Spence

I just heard this song for the first time about a month ago and I immediately wondered how I have gone this long without ever hearing it. It sounds so, uhm, tasteful...

Belong by Washed Out

I was really surprised when I found out who was behind what I only knew of as "Washed Out". It's surprising to find that a young, soft spoken southern kid with a baby's face is making chillwave that sounds like dreams. Look him up.

Golden by Katie The Pest

A.K.A. Talia Rose...she's a real nice girl. Found out about her from a music sampler, dug her up on the internets, and she's a real person. You can listen to a bunch of her songs here on blogger. This girl pumps out songs like a fucking machine. You can tell it's pretty much what she's all about.

Bull In The Heather (cover) by The Go! Team

I'm just gonna tell people who know me in real life not to get mad at me for posting this song on a blog. Most of the people that read my crap are cool and deserve to hear it if they haven't already. The ones who don't deserve it don't care so we won't have to worry about it being ruined.