It was in the middle of texting "Happy St Patrick's day, you fucking racist" that my fourth Guinness arrived.

Did you know that the original color of St Patrick's day was blue?



I have to sober up immediately; tomorrow I will have to fast, soak in some concentrated radiation, allow myself to experience partial exsanguination, urinate in a cup, and regain enough strength to go to a rock and roll show. Next week, I will get felt up by my primary physician, inspected and graded for release into the civilian world. However, there will be no full-frontal nudity. Bummer.






Two things that I am hoping for: an acoustic encore from either band and Alkaline Trio playing Tegan and Sara covers.



I wonder if Matt still thinks Tegan's the cooler one.



All I have now is a thunderstorm boning a tempest in the small shitty city apartment that is my brain. The sounds of the elevated portion of the subway system roar through the window. The paint peels under the coercion of condensation as a cicadean cacophony occasionally wafts in from the periphery.

Granny Smith apples and natural peanut butter are a fucking amazing combination.

As I begrudgingly lurch from task to taxing task tomorrow, I'll work on finalizing the upcoming national tour. It will hardly be national, nor will it constitute an international tour. No Canada. Maybe Seattle, possible Minneapolis, but no Canada. Not until after May 15th, at least.

I'm starting to look back on the things that I'll miss about Charleston (short list), but one of them is already gone, and I miss him more than any list could dignify.

I'm going to be dealing with these motherfuckers on tax day. Pray nothing happens (to them).



You know what, fuck it. Canada, here I come.