Today is the warmest I've been in weeks. The windshield is despicably dirty and the streaks intensify the sunlight. I wish I had prescription sunglasses. Instead, I pop out the lenses of stolen drug store sunglasses and loosely fix them to the insides of my regular glasses.
Last night, we did many terrible things. Somehow word got out that I tattoo, which lead to such idiotic statements like, "You need to give me a dagger, because I've been stabbed in the back." Trying to be somewhat responsible at the moment, I refrained from doing tattoos. Jake, however, took it upon himself to some stick and poke tattoos with a sewing needle, broken pen, and india ink. They were his first attempts at life ruining. Of course, tattooing is a long process and by the time Jake was working on his second masterpiece (An X and an O on some little gal's wrist.), my sense of responsibility had been thwarted by Jim Bean. I leaned over the gal, saw the blood and ink soaked atrocity, then dangled a strand of spit over it. Jake seeing this, pushed me away and my saliva landed on the table. I aimed again, conjured up what liquid I had in my mouth, yet was pushed away again. Third time's a charm, though, I finally successfully spat upon the open wound. The gal, being quite inebriated, took a moment to inspect the spit. When she realized what had happened, she looked to her left, leaped over a table and punched some guy in the face, thinking it was him that had soiled her new, awful tattoo. I let the guy take the blame, and walked back downstairs.