do they make some that doesn't smell like death??

I've been tricked into trying it before...

I actually haven't eaten vegemite in months. It is my most loved hangover cure though.. so that makes sense as I've not been drunk (aside from work xmas kareoke) in a year or more.

it does smell vile but it tastes like my childhood!

tasty tasty children.

Im going!! now.

I'd tell you sweet dreams but I have a mouth full of vomit.

I blame New Zealand, the Bee Gees and Priscilla.

you guys woke me up.

pris and the bee gees made you eat vegemite in nz? :confused:

Damn Floslow and Pheonix must have been talking real loudly.

Budweiser is originally a Czech beer, so i don't really know what you're talking about.

Yeah but I think the cz beer is actually good?

my cat (who thinks he is my boyfriend) is taking up half my bed, and the pillow to hug in place of my real boy is taking up the other half. Phoenix sammich.

terror twilight
on a walk in dark clothing
there's a guy practicing nunchucs in his front yard.

how the fuck did this page get to the middle of page two?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WTV22U6a4c

Um WTF???

oooooog

i was the 66,600 viewer!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jcKVf...eature=related

happy weekend, bitches

The girl opposite me has just suffered the death of a beloved goldfish. It was one of those stubborn fuckers that lasts a decade, so she really had a chance to become attached to it. The fish has seen her through her exams, her sexual awakening, and now it is dead.
Suddenly, the towers of photo albums - padded with snapshots of her and the goldfish in front of all the major global landmarks - have suddenly become too painful to acknowledge. So theyre left in the spare room: unseen, but for the glowing red dot on the wireframe tactical map of her soul.
She was so moved by the loss, that she couldnt stomach the endless recitals and eulogising of a full Catholic funeral, and asked her boyfriend to flush the fish down the toilet. This he did, and she sank into an introspective slumber. The sound of urination roused her from internal soliloquy, and she felt stirred to comment.
Are you pissing on my dead fish?
Stripped of guile by the grieving process, the reply was stark.
I needed a piss
So you pissed on my goldfish.
What followed was a debate between conserving natures resources and not pissing on a fish. Its a debate that can never be reconciled, but I know how that boyfriend felt. If hed flushed, he would have had to wait for the cistern to refill - and staring into a toilet, unable to move, is when most humans have their darkest, most introspective thoughts about futility.
Theres also the fear that your next attempt will be premature triggering an ineffective splash that cruelly resets your waiting time.
And the attempts to interpret the sounds coming from inside the cistern did that change of tone mean that the water has stopped, or simply that theres less room for reverberation inside the pot? Why are you trying to learn the secret language of toilets?
Finally, the desperate lifting of the cistern lid, for some kind of visual clue as to when you might be able to resume your life. You are standing over your own waste, probably with your trousers still around your ankles, and staring at mouldy ballcocks toilet water. You are scum. How you even dare to survive another moment is a fucking brazen liberty.

It is 5am and I've spent the evening in a public reserve drinking coffee/tea and playing scrabble.

in love with joanna newsom