I Don't Even Know What I Am Rambling About?

I hate when I don't feel like writing. It's like a fisherman not wanting to fish or a porn star not wanting to gobble down several feet of fluffed cock, but this is where I find myself. All of my efforts have been focused upon an athletic endeavor and being the wondrous creature I am can only focus on this singular feat. Drinking has taken a backseat, banging... backseat and caring has also found itself tossed into the abyss of empty Starbucks receptacles and gym shoes formerly known as "the backseat". Next week I hope to find myself knee deep in Gin-tacular idiocy and forgotten moments of grandiose proportions or at least just really drunk with my pants around my ankles (don't you hate cankles... fuckin' gross!). Even though sleep once again has begun to elude me, I will not allow the temptations of  scrumtrulescent chocolate chip cookies or.... Ok fuck all this, behaving myself is complete shit! You know what else sucks a big fat dick? Watching a fat bald dude cruise around Chicago stuffing his ass looking face and making coitus related sounds every time he takes a bite of a sheep's brain or freeze dried whatever the fuck that was. I would turn the channel, but Larry The Cable Guy is telling me what happens "Only In America" on the History Channel and the plastic princess is waxing idiotic over on E. All I really want to do right now is jam pizza down my craw, drink some brew and bury my face in something feminine, but instead I punish myself with mind numbing television and the dream of worldly pleasures that are temporarily out of reach.