Not a machine, Johnny Five is alive!
I’m not dead. Yes, kicked out of the house, but no, not dead. I’ve been working too much to post, and considering homeless people don’t have computers, I haven’t been able to post. I don’t have much to post about. Well, I do, but I don’t feel like typing much. Too damned tired. Me and BlueMax’s paychecks combined were eight hundred and fifty five dollars. I paid off my transmission for the Volvo, dammit. It wasn’t a new transmission, but then the new ones are sixteen hundred and twenty-five dollars. The used one I got was only four hundred dollars. Total: Seven hundred and thirty dollars. Not bad. Next, my car shall be painted with Chromillusion all over. That’ll be seven hundred dollars. I don’t care, I saw a car painted with it yesterday at Target and now I need it badly. Why am I phatting out my car? It’s a damned four-cylinder! Nobody, and I mean nobody, phats out a four-cylinder without becoming a rice-burner. Well, if that’s what it boils down to, so be it. I’m buying a turbo charger for it later on anyway. My audio system is still putting the bass in the place and the boom in the…uhh…trunk. Camp Hanes is getting a bit better because I’m getting to work with Nikolai more, and that makes an interesting situation. All we do is act like dumbasses and make corny jokes. Today Nikolai, BlueMax, and I had to break down boxes to put in the dumpster. We had a broom holding the two back doors open, horizontally. I started whistling the Darth Maul theme. Nick ran up to the doors, kicked the broom out from between them, and grabbed it in midair, twirls it around like seven hundred and twenty degrees, and makes a stance like a double sided lightsaber–just like on Episode One. It was funny as hell. After seeing The Fast and the Furious, I want a fast car badly. My car will go no faster than one hundred and ten miles per hour. The speedometer goes up to one hundred and fourty miles per hour, but I can never get it that fast. Damn the torpedoes! Well, Goodnight, hit the NOS, and Godspeed.
