Tell That Freak To Take It Off (Represent Your Coast)!

So, I am currently listening to the rap group Teriyaki Boyz. I stole them from my new favorite movie: The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Let's just say that half of this song is in Japanese, and I'm in love with it.

I get in such weird moods, sometimes, where I listen to music that I can't understand (it doesn't stop me from singing along, though).

There are so many entries like this among the few items that I feel proud of. Those odd, ramblings that make me look like an awkward, pretentious preteen with a fetish for internet frenzies. It seems like on the days that I want to write, I end up cranking out shit like this (and when I have hundreds of other things to do, I pump out this thirty-nine-page masterpiece in like fourteen and a half minutes).

I want to write. I want low-carb Jose Cuervo. I want a British accent. I want a Japanese school girl to be my faux-girlfriend who lets me dress her in wicked clothes. I want to be Gwenny GwenGwen. I want to be blonde and tan and muscley. I want muscley to be a real word. I want to be colorful and earthy and spaced out. I want to believe in karma and reincarnation and heaven and hell and the triumph of good over evil. I want to live in poverty in New York City with a loft that overlooks the whole city. I want to sing and sing and sing about my problems instead of writing in silence and angst.

I want to be allowed to feel excited and depressed at the same time. I want to make that money. I want to be injected with intelligence because actually learning is overrated. I want to write a book called "male, middle-class, and white." I want to scream until I cannot be silenced. I want to be a magazine editor. I want a vivacious red-headed best friend who I know like the back of my hand. I want to finish someone else's sentences. I want to take my clothes off for money. I want to make a mix CD for the Pope and Madonna and Prince and Beyonce and everyone in existence with only one name.

I want to dance until my legs break. I want to travel the world as a famous popstar. I want to hide from the paparazzi. I want a lifetime subscription to Vogue and Nylon and Vanity Fair and GQ. I want jeans from every designer ever. I want a closet that's all white and flourescent. I want to lose my chin and gain some biceps and keep my ass. I want to play the piano. I want three emails from T-Hall that say "You Have A Package" and an email from my boss telling me I got a raise and an email from Kanye West. I want a national holiday dedicated to me.

I want my own elevator. I want it to snow forever. I want this entry to delete itself, because I cannot bring myself to delete it. MaryAnn's a bitch.

And in the words of the immortal Missy Elliott:
"It don’t matter where you from, it’s where you at,
and if you came to freak-a-leak, you better bring your hat."

Okay, I actually don't even know what that really means.
XOXOXO