I couldn't sleep. I got up. I felt like reading some Kurt Vonnegut. I grabbed "Galapagos". I'm already on chapter 17. Jesus Jumping Jack Flash Fiddlesticks Christ. This man can write. I am of the firm belief that Mr. Vonnegut could write about my last bowel movement in a way that would make God weep. Not Jesus. God. Jesus weeps at everything. I just might stay up all night and finish this damn thing. Or not.
Kurt Vonnegut, I adore you. If I were a woman, or if I were gay, or if I just wanted some casual sex regardless from who or what, then I would most certainly give you a bit of the ol' in-out-in-out. I'm serious. Seriously. I am.
If anyone reading this wants to get me a xmas gift. Do this: Get me a Vonnegut book that I don't own. (I own Galapagos, Slaughter House 5, Breakfast of Champions, and Timequake) Used or new. I don't give a good god damn. Of course I don't celebrate xmas. I trust you won't expect anything in return.
If you don't want to give me a Kurt Vonnegut book, please give me a job.
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