Why?

Why in the name of all that is holy is Jim Morrison such a massive twat? I know, I know: he's dead... but clearly the pain is still with us.



There are few things in my past that I am proud of, but NEVER being a Doors fan is one of them.



Such fucking self-induldgent crap. If you are going to go the whole hog and make a jean jacket with The Lizard King's fucking face on it, then reallly GO THE WHOLE HOG and make the collar/neck hole the gaping maw that was the Mouth of Morrison. Maybe lop a few locks off of some stoned, unsuspecting hippy in the train station and attach them somehow to the lapels, so Morrison's radiant halo of funked up, nasty hair will not go unseen. Make the sleeves his ears, so then when you put your fat, dimpled paws through his SKULL you will at least maybe SOMEHOW being paying that bastard back for the crimes he perpetrated against MUSIC.

Whew. I'm spent. I really can't take any more... and yet, my hand is moving, as if possessed by Lucifer himself... forgive me.



"Come back to my CRIB. I will make u a personal pizza. U can personalize it urself. I like olives on mine! I promise not 2 use onions... ah ha. Get it? ;+) WINK!!! Kiss kiss!"

I don't know. I really don't know what that was all about. I would like to say I am drunk, but I cannot hide behind the bottle any longer, people. I am stone cold sober, which makes this a damn sight scarier. My hands are shaking. Sinister, isn't it? Speaking of which...



I know at this point I am up to my fucking NECK in Halloween costume ideas, but it is fast approaching, and it may be that I pull a Cher and do several costume changes. I figure, a few yards of blue gingham and a bundle of sweatpant material, a few long nights at the rotary club, some Pat Boone on the stereo and a good friend willing to take a chance on a kid with a dream, and I am SET...




On the other hand... what the FUCK is going on in this picture??? A few scenarios come to mind, but seriously, is this how Norman Bates killed his mother: gradually starting out by dressing identically, then convincing her that what the Bates Motel REALLY needed was a wind machine to create ambience and then surreptitiously slipping something into her morning mint julep, lovingly placing her rocking chair in front of the very machine that would strip the papery skin from her delicate skull... ever dreaming of how her calico dresses would feel against HIS skin... fucking hell.

Ohhh, wait. It's a telescope! But still...

Forgive me.