Post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADEUP memory of you and me.
It can be anything you want - good or bad - BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.
When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you.
keep the few faithful readers I have that browse the entries on my unending tribulations.
I never thought I'd luv all the patriotism on the fourth of July, but this year I am listening to all kinds of illegal fireworks. I use to be able to recognize when somebody was drunk and trigger happy enough to risk the $1K stipend for firing their weapon in the air, but now I can't figure it out. I took this opportunity to play my guitar really fucking loud. The spell is broken and if I'm ever to be visited by a cop responding to complaints by neighbors about how loud I can be, it's not today. I just stepped outside to roll up the windows to my truck and there're bottle rockets all over the place (not just Dodger Stadium and/or Echo Park). I'm eager to complete the song I've been trying to learn for more than a year. I've memorized the solo. YAY!! I'm having trouble with the CODA.
I'll probably have to lay low for a bit. I seem to have developed a blister on my third finger. I haven't done that in awhile and thought it would never happen now that the third finger of mine has cultivated a considerable callousness to it. Once this heals though, all I'll need to do is practice increasing my speed during my solo and feeling the rhythm. Every time I play MEAN MAN, it isn't until I'm thinking of my ex-girlfriend (now probably very family oriented) and giving the line I'm a mean mother fucking man relevance to my desire for her. After all, a mother that bears a child who isn't my own is the best kind of mother I'd ever fuck.