Dear living room in my small ass condo,

I fucking hate you. For the last two weeks I have dream about carving some glorious pumpkins. Now I stare at the remains of my carv-a-licious weekend hating you. Living room, why can't you clean yourself?

Sitting on the couch waiting for Rosario to come clean up and make me a drink,
JC

PS: J- I decided to add the "C" to the end of my posts. In a recent drunken splendor, I read your shit trying to remember when that happened to me. I hope the addition of the "C" will assist me in differentiating between my life and yours.