You walk back home taking small sips of coffee in shame, knowing that the apron wearing jackass behind the counter is judging you for wasting the coffee shop's space. That's right, a grown man with an ICP tattoo made you feel bad about your decisions.
Your earlier confidence spills out all over your apartment as you clear off a little space to work. It's fine until the neighbors start listening to Yeezus again, then everything goes to hell. It isn't that the album isn't good or anything, but you can't help but think that Pitchfork's 9.5 review was a bit inflated.
"I mean, did they even listen to the lyrics?" you say to no one as the bass fills your studio apartment.
That's okay, you turn on the TV and, believe it or not, find Demolition Man to drown out the music. You used to love this movie so much, what's Wesley Snipes name again? You look it up on Wikipedia and the next thing you know you're scanning eBay for a still-in-box Earthbound cartridge. You have no idea where the last three hours go, but you're positive that it's impossible to finish the assignment.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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