what happens when you mix a resilient mother fucker with a large truck with a combined speed of 100 MPH?
Blake. cheating death.
Or, as I put it "dancing with death."
to which he replied... "I even spun her around."
fucker.
apparently, he is messed up. and i can attest to that, as I saw the pictures of various parts of his body. and apparently his cool little car is a ball of metal, at the moment. tomorrow we'll see the pictures. apparently, he's not seen it since they, um... "removed" him from it. fuck. the other guy had to be cut out. lovely. bad enough to hear about it, but seeing the fucking car will be too much. but i have to, you know? he should be dead. his car fucking WRAPPED around his body. and he's fine. bloody mess, but nothing broken. he shouldn't have a hand. but he's fine. i think he's also the antichrist.
i knew something was weird when he wasn't around for a few days and went to bed too early last night.
ass.
i told him if i ever found out he died on me, i'd kill him. yes, you read right. and that's very funny, so laugh. i'm not above beating the corpse of my friend, to bring the life back into him, just so i can kill him myself. try to leave this world without me, will you? ha!
i'm trying really hard not to think about the whole business. the world without my cuban would be a dark place, indeed. he is suppose to tell me the meaning of life, the universe and everything else. or is it porn...
i make jokes. to cover up the, you know. see how that works?
i don't care what you say. as much as i'd like to believe it, i'm *not* like catherine keener in that movie about the guy's brain. i'm too much of a pushover sometimes now, for that. yeah.
