Mo' money. Mo' drugs. Not necessarily in that order

Another weird aside from last night.

During my little 'sick out,' I had to go lie down on my bed for a minute. When I got up, I noticed a little baggie of blow on the floor. Where the hell did that come from?

I picked it up and took it into the living room. Looking around, I realized this was my most recent coke purchase. How it went from my coffee table to the floor of my bedroom I'll never know.

The worst part is that there isn't that much left. It seems like I just bought this shit, and I'm already plotting how I can give my man another $60 for even more.

It's gotten to the point that I need a supplemental income to fund my drug habit. I kind of need a regular supply if marijuana and cocaine on hand at all times. And that shit is expensive, yo.

Granted, I'm not a totally strung-out tweeker sucking dick for some rock. Far from it, thankfully. I'm still kind of amazed at how well I manage my drug use.

So I'm over here brainstorming ways to finance my drug use without it affecting my bottom line (which it hasn't yet, knock on my wooden head).

I've been doing a lot more freelance work, oddly enough. It's kind of amazing that there's any freelance work out there. But there is. I should really be more proactive about getting to it, though. So I'm gonna go do just that.

I'm already imagining the first line I'm gonna snort when I get home. A nice, big fat rail chopped out on my old-school Van Halen mirror that I'm sure some burnout won at a state fair a million years ago. My dick is getting hard just thinking of the initial nasal burn that comes with that first toot.

I am counting the days until the arrival of "Orgy World 6," let me tell you.

Oh, and I didn't even mention the other day that my girl Wild Card is sitting on a cache of what she calls 'fucking crazy' hits of Ecstasy. God, how I used to love Ecstasy!

You wanna talk about a good drug for sex---WOOOO. I had an ex once. We would take E together and literally fuck all night long. Like actual penis in vagina fucking for hours straight, until the sun was coming up.

E is kind of my favorite drug. But the hangover/recovery is such a bitch, dude. Damn.

More drugs, please. Thank you.

Be your own hero

I’m drunk. But that’s OK.

I went over to Wild Card’s place tonight.

We drank lots of wine and talked about music and relationships and sex and career and family and so much more.

We smoked a really potent joint made of some strain of OG Kush that’s fucking amazing. So stoned.

Of course I had to whip out the blow. She was shocked but dove right in and hovered up a line like nobody’s business.

But our connection is strictly business. Combined, the two of us could create intellectual properties that everyone would know about and people at your job would talk about online and even more people would buy t-shirts and coffee mugs commemorating said property. Her and I could do that.

I also think we could have mind-blowing, toe-curling sex together. She’s not there yet, and probably never will be. But that’s OK. I’m down to take the money and find myself some real freaky deaks to enjoy it with.

Thangs are about to get real interesting, peoples.

Like, really.

PS: I must have really laid it down last night. The ex that I plowed has been sending me text after text saying how she wants more more more. Let’s see, fuck a sexy lil 20-something six ways from sideways whenever I see fit?

Yeah, that works for me.

Fuck you, Uncle Sam. Now pay me.

The U.S. government is fucking me. And not in the good way.

It kind of figures. For the first time in my life, I got my act together and went to an accountant. A really good accountant.

He showed me a myriad of things I could write off, and when all was said and done my refund was the largest it’s ever been. By a country mile. I’ve never gotten back thousands of dollars before. 2009 was gonna rock, baby!

And then, the fuckers must’ve just decided that I wasn’t worth that much money. They probably got wind of the fact that I’m just out here coasting through life and did not earn the right to get back so much of my hard-earned dough that I involuntarily send to their diamond toilet and gold-plated yacht fund every year.

I had to go so far as to file a claim with the U.S. government to either track down the original check (which some online robot swears was mailed out) or eventually send me a replacement check.

Of course, the paltry little California state return came back with a quickness. Bah! Sure, you owed my that chunk of change, and I’m glad you were man enough to pay it, Mr. California. But can you please say something to yer boy America? There’s a kilo of cocaine, a gross of condoms and a week fucking as many dirty hookers as (in)humanly possible in Amsterdam between raiding coffee shops for their supplies of Sour Diesel buds in my future whenever they gimme my $$$$. That shit is gonna be epic.