Isolation. I-so-la-shuh-hun. Isolation.




My life is over at 23.

Over the past two days, I’ve slept for 11 hours total, about 6 hours more than the laziest soldier in Iraq, and I’m fucking beat. My friend Enrico Ciccone (pseudonym) offered me a ticket to the Avalanche-Hawks game tonight, but my balls shriveled up like Pinot Noir in Chile. I should have been at the United Center tonight to watch Jonathan Toews’ goal and ejaculate an Elizabethan sonnet on the person in front of me afterwards. Instead, I bitched and moaned about having to rearrange every single carton in a wine, spirits, and beer emporium, and spent the night listening to My Bloody Valentine as catharsis for my angst. Oh, this box of grape shit should be over there? Sleep like a pillow, fuck you. Will it taste less like turpentine? No? Then fuck you. Get someone else to move it. I’ll be out of here in a year because of college or a knife to my carotid artery.


I’d personally like to thank José Theodore for tonight’s win. When the Avalanche play, it doesn’t matter if Joe Sakic, Paul Stastny, Wojtek Wolski, Keith Jones, and Stephane Fiset score hat tricks; the final score will be at least 16-15. Theodore is the Robitussin for goal-starved teams:



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