Am I evil?

Blood on Satan's Desert Island.

What's that nagging, needling, niggling Ipecac wretcher called when there's a billion blatherers dying to upchuck on a zillion chunks of this, that, t'other but, lo! out the black blood of the earth! a quadrillion don't cares have erected a Godzilla-sized Erector set bricked up with Lego bricks of adamantium that even a doped-up Ghidorah can't fuck with?

Albums make much better companions than people.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled egads-a-thon.

Twenty-one gun salute

Yes, the marriage to the SBH is now old enough to drink. And drink I shall.

Hitchery, or, I try to get through to you, in my own special way

Wipe that smile off your mug.
 
Twenty years today. Huh. Pause. Here, a dozen half-ass semi-starts on the complexity of hex mapping low-maintenance rainbows' blood-drenched maws requiring a top-flight tool kit to finish pretend-devouring gleefully chucked philosophy never discussed, hour-long stares through right + wrong axes slope equaling consequence natch & into dry wall & brick, all whilst navigating drunken tidal currents but then I remembered my heritage to filter like a fancy English smoke, so I'm left with a nagging cough, ear-stuck buds, inkless demons, those crumbled-up cringe things, & being one of those where the fuck am I folks. I was promised an ulcer! 'tis nothing congratulatory, spambot acquaintance, merely an approximation spun out of this rock's orbit of a G-class star.

Humans sure love marking the miles before the dirt, which rules 'cause darkthroning is cool & refreshing, unless it's summer, then it's only refreshing.