Despite years of derogatory, mildly racist comments and jabs, my account and I were asked to be a part of some matrimony bullshit. The human equivalent of a handjob married an absolute angel and I, or more importantly my signature, were chosen to be a specific part of that beautiful ceremony/catholic charade.
YYZ –> BOG III. We’re not here for a long time, and we’re here for the last time.
Mariachi band house shows are so sick.
Still, fuck The Beatles.
Thicc bird.
Sick burn (I got a sunburn)
There are no laws on a Colombian airport tarmac.
Nor are there any whilst drinking in a hut on the Caribbean coast.
I guess I’m a cat guy now.
I don’t know what to do with my hands.
I was not asked to buy cocaine nearly as much as I would have liked and thus, I did less cocaine than I would have liked. But in the interest of still trying to kill myself quicker, I ate far more beef than I would have liked.
I was very happy with my tequila and vitamin d intake though. Which I wish I could say was the reason I walked straight into a clearly visible glass patio door in the middle of day that one time, but it wasn’t.
Bury Me In Vans 
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