I am such a jackass.

OK- you know how I skipped a couple of days posting because I was a werewolf?

I skipped yesterday for a reason less cool than that.

Yeah- so two days in a row, I turn into a beast- the first time, I eat my goddamn cat, which I'm still a little bummed out about, and the second time I use my ex-girlfriend's bondage cuffs to chain myself to the bed.

It worked pretty well- but I guess I should tell you guys first what it feels like to turn into a werewolf.

The first time was Wednesday, the night the Sox clinched the World Series, and I was feeling great all day, but that may have been anticipation about the game. I had all my superstious Sox clothing on- the El Guapo shirt, bruins hat, and my lucky jeans, which I was wearing on the night of game 4 against the Yankees. As the pregame hype started, the excitement turned to horror.

I got hit with an incredibly intense bolt of pain in all of my bones, forcing me down to my knees. And from there, it was strange, I don't know if any of you guys have ever had a panic attack, but it's kind of like a feeling of gradually intensifying fear, building and building until you are at the level of terror that you have when you accidentally step out in front of a fast moving car. It's like that except that the terror stays there.

Constantly.

It's made worse by the fact that there really isn't anything to be scared of, you're just sitting in your house freaking out, wondering why your body is doing this to you.

It was kind of simliar to that when I was changing into the wolf, but instead of fear- it was a growing sense of- I guess, power. As the feeling intensified, there was a lot of pain, but the narcotic of power made the pain irresistible, kind of like pulling off a scab that hurts, but the satisfaction of seeing that scab come off supercedes any pain you feel from the pulling.

Of course there was very little will involved.

I heard my bones stretching, snapping, and groaning, and I do have a very vivid memory of wanting to look at my hand, like in American Werewolf in London, but at the time, my forehead and jawline were stretching and expanding outwards, forcing my eyes closed.

I also could hear my hair growing, probably becuase it was growing in my ears, which were also being pulled beyond their normal dimensions by what felt like a peice of cartilege pushing up and out of my ears, but instead of piercing the flesh and bursting out of my body they were guiding the expansion of my flesh.

It's kind of a drag, cause I bet my hands looked pretty cool.

The next time I got a chance to check them, they were pretty much paws.

It was then that my cat jumped out at me.

I don't want to talk about what happened next.

At any rate, the strangest thing about this, is I remember what it was like- my vision was a little more clouded, and I was by no definition in control, but I can remember what it was like- it's like being on mushrooms or something, but really angry mushrooms.

After I finished off the cat- I was insatiably hungry- I leapt into the kitchen- which was awesome. I'm talking clear over the couch and on all fours in front of the fridge- tore the door off and ate the raw steak and hamburger in there.

That's when it got frustrating.

Although I could see what I was doing, it was a lot like being under the influence of a drug as there were certain things I just couldn't do, like unlock the front door of my apartment. I live on a 6th floor walkup so I remember bounding to the window, seeing how far down it was and just being stuck. I might have been a ravenous beast, but I wasn't stupid enough to jump to my death.

All things considered, a Brooklyn apartment is a lot safer place for a werewolf to be than say, a country house on the moors of Scotland. I have a fire escape, but there are bars over it, designed to keep people out, and in my state I couldn't figure out how to work it, so I railed at the window for a while and then just went nuts.

I tore the shit out of my apartment, flipping over tables, mutilating the curtains, braking windows, destroying dishes, eating the cat litter and scratching the shit out of the walls. It's a miracle my neighbors didn't call the cops. Thank God I didn't fuck up my computer. I don't remember much after that.

When I woke up, It was 9:30 in the morning, I was naked in my living room (which was totally trashed), I had blood all over my chest, and I had to get to the video store by 10:00. Long story short, I show up late to work after going to Mikey's Hookup to find out iPod's don't have batteries, they have chargers, so I buy one, and go to work at the video store.

Every single dickhead in the store wants a recomendation for "something scary."

I finish my entire shift without saying much.

I get home, start charging the ipod, and while it works now- Dan isn't there.

Fuck.

I remember Kristen's handcuffs. If I'm going to be this fucking monster again, I can't be destroying my apartment every goddamn night. I put the key in the breast pocket of my shirt, handcuff myself to the bed, and again, I change. I remember ranting against the cuffs for a while, but they held true, and I woke up naked again, with the tatters of clothes all around me.

On Friday, Dan still isn't on the iPod, and I'm really scared. I figure all I can do is go for the handcuffs again. Still, I don't want to ruin my clothes again, so I strip naked this time, and fasten the cuffs. I was pretty terrified as it started to get dark, and was gripped in full-on panic attack mode as it got darker and darker.
Then, nothing.

Oh fuck.

Is it really possible that it's not a full moon, and now I'm chained to my bed for nothing?

Yes. So where was the key?

In my pants.

Across the room.

Nice job genius- it's not even a full moon, I'm naked as the day I was born, handcuffed to my bed, and I can't do a damned thing about it.

I stayed there all night Friday, all day Saturday, and all Saturday night, which is why I haven't posted. Sunday morning, I managed to get the attention of the newspaper delivery guy, who I heard putting my Times outside my door. He got the landlord, who walked into an apartment literally torn to pieces, and found me naked and handcuffed to the bed.

I told him where the keys were and as he was uncuffing me, I sheepishly said- "Yeah, my girlfriend's kind of a psycho. Oh, and can I get a new fridge?"

I might need to find a new place soon.

If you have any leads, leave a comment- I guess I'm looking for a loft space in Williamsburg, for under $2000 a month, high ceilings, plenty of light, 6th floor or higher, ideally an elevator building. Any roomates should be open to alternative lifestyles. No pets.

Keep your ears open, OK?

Sorry I haven't posted in a while-

-I have a pretty good excuse though.

I'm a werewolf.

Fuck.

Last Wednesday night, a blood red full moon, shadowed by the first lunar eclipse that ever fell on a World Series game, caused me to fall to the floor, start uncontrollably screaming, and transform into a beast.

I can't believe I missed that fucking game.

I was wearing my El Guapo shirt at the time, too- and it's totally fucking ruined.

I mean, don't get me wrong, it's great that the Red Sox won it- I mean, really- if someone had asked me a few months ago if in exchange for the Red Sox winning the World Series I would accept the disease of lycanthropy, causing me to change into a wolf and feed on the blood of the innocent on a monthly basis, I would have had to give it a long, hard think.

I don't think I would have done it, but you know- hindsight's 20-20, so who knows.

I never got batteries for the iPod, either, so I haven't talked to Dan about it yet. 10 bucks says he's gonna be a smug prick.

That's so fucking typical of me- I hate when I do stuff like this, but I do it all the time.
What the hell is wrong with me that when I KNOW I have a problem, and KNOW I really oughta do something about it, instead of actually stepping up to the plate and addressing it, I just kinda drift into denial and hope everything will work out.

I did it when Kristen and I broke up- I knew we were having problems and rather than address them, I shut her out, didn't return her phone calls and she dumped me. I do it with my bills all the time, I'll get a bill, and for some reason just don't pay it. Yeah, whatever, it'll work out. Next thing I know, I try to make a phone call and the goddamn thing is shut off. And now, once again, I'm in the same fucking boat. I get bit by a lycantharope, get warnings out the ass from both a creepy old homeless man and the ghost of a dead man, who was communicating with me from beyond the grave through his old iPod, and probably still would be if the batteries hadn't died.

Just get some batteries, asshole- this is a big one.

But no.

Mikey's hookup closes at 10:00, and I just HAVE to see the end of that fucking West Wing re-run I've already seen twice? I mean what is it going to take for me to get off my ass?

It's like... fuck dude- there is a fair to middling chance that you are going to transform into a MONSTER, and you really need to re-watch that episode where Donna drops her panties in front of the writer from the Times?

Still, that is a good episode.

It's just kind of a drag to look at the headlines all over the countrythat say "The Curse is Over" when, well- you know, it's just getting started.

Also, my cat's dead.

Can you believe it?

The Red Sox win the world series, and not only do I miss the game, but I sprout hair and fangs and eat my fucking cat.

One thing about it that's different from the movies is I actually remember what happened that night. I couldn't really control myself, but I could see, and I remember.

I'd like to tell you about what happened, and I will, but it's getting kind of dark, and I better go pull out those two pairs of handcuffs out of my dresser and lock myself to my bed. At least I got something useful out of my relationship with Kristen.

Fuck, maybe I should call her- she was into some pretty kinky shit.

Anyway, I gotta go- it's getting dark.

This sucks.

I feel great!

Went to work last night, and I gotta tell you I was a little concerned, but, really- what was I expecting, that I would turn into a wolf?

I haven't been sleeping too well- and I think the World Series has me a little stressed.

Seriously, I've been reading some of my old posts, and it's all World Series and werewolves. I'm a 31 year old man, for fuck's sake, what am I doing obsessing over either of these things? I think I'm still having an adverse reaction to the new Star Wars movies sucking. Seriously, when I was 12, I couldn't imagine a world that had even one Star Wars movie that sucked. Now 40 percent of them do.

By the way, while I was working in the store, I watched Wolf. You know the Jack Nicholson movie that made all of us really start seriously wondering if Mike Nichols had totally lost it?

So, I'm pretty sure I'm not a werewolf. I'm mean, I can't jump any higher, I'm no hornier, I don't spook horses when I walk by, and I certainly have never been in a werewolf fight with a wolfed out James Spader. I pee on stuff, but I'm an artist- deal with it. Watching that movie is really worth it though, just for the werewolf fight. You have a wolfy Jack Nicholson fighting a wolfy James Spader, and it's one of the most ridiculous things I've ever seen.

Like, in my book if you're going to have a werewolf kill a guy what's the best way for him to do it? Oh yeah, the werewolf should run him over in a CAR. God knows the curse of lycanthopy can cause a lot of weird side effects, who knew it impared your driving?And just seeing James Spader with hair and fangs is kinda funny. I mean, it'd be funny enough to see Spader with ANY body hair at all, but c'mon- if you're casting a werewolf movie, should you be saying- I need a terrifying and intimidating monster- get me Steff from Pretty in Pink! Oh, and I'll need a Frankenstien monster- is Ducky available?

I mean, Jesus.

You know, come to think of it, I haven't walked by any horses recently. I should try that.

There's a full moon tonight.

I suppose I should explain.

Hey guys- sorry about the last post, I was a little freaked out, and kind of thought I was losing my mind a little.

I still do, but at least there is some record of that. It's funny, I always fancied myself a bit of a writer, but I never thought what I would end up writing would be as bizzare as this.

So, check it out.

Apparently, I was bitten by a werewolf, and when the moon is full, I will turn into an animal and start eating people. The bitch of it is, The Red Sox are in the motherfucking world series this week, and I'm gonna fucking miss it, just so I can run around eating motherfuckers.

Little joke there.

I'm still not sure I buy it.

You see, I was listening to the dead man's iPod, the one I got from the cops after I woke up in the hospital, (see first post) and there was this singer on it I've never heard of named Dan Reilly. I was curious, because a lot of the other stuff was bad early 80's pop, and a lot of the Cure. OK- if you like the Cure, fine, but it's just- well, I was raised right. Teen angst is just far better expressed through punk and metal, at least if you have a pair.

Anyway, just about everything else on the thing sucked, so I selected the first Dan Reilly track, which was called "Thief," and the following exchange went down. At first, I thought it was spoken word, as there was just a single male voice, with no music at all:

"Hey, Thief."

Then nothing.

"Yeah- you. You fucking thief. You stole my iPod."

What? (I thought)

"You heard me."

What the fuck is going on!? Am I going crazy?

"No, you're not crazy. You're a werewolf. And what is going on is you need to kill yourself."

Jesus, this music really sucked.

"This isn't music, dipshit. This is Dan. And you're listening to my iPod."

Who the fuck is Dan?

"Dan. Dan Reilly, you fucking cocksmoker. I died on the bridge last September. I was one of the lucky ones."

OK I'm crazy.

"You're not crazy."

I skipped the track back to the beginning.

"That won't work. It's all me."

I went forward three tracks.

"Still me."

I went back two tracks.

"Skip around all you want douchebag, I have something to say to you."

I put on the Cure.

"Oh- now Mr. Metalhead likes the Cure! I See how it is."

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME! (That time I yelled out loud)

"What do I want? What do I want? I want to be able to rest. To get to heaven. And I can't while you're still alive."

There's a heaven? Wow!

"Well, not really, it's a long story- it's a cool place though. Long story, my great-grandfather is there, and I can shoot pool with him. It's pretty rad."

Hmm.

"Look- what I'm telling you is, until YOU die, I'm in this fucking limboland, and I can't get there. Plus, if you don't kill yourself, You will kill. And others will suffer as I am."

If by suffering, you mean living in a shitty iPod that's filled with nothing but Huey Lewis and the Cure? That does suck.

"Fuck you."

Fuck you!

"Look. This is important. Do you remember that homeless man who told you about the curse?"

Yeah- he was talking about baseball- the curse is over, the Sox beat the Yankees-

"The Sox beat the Yankees? In the playoffs? Holy shit!"

Oh, yeah, Dude! you should have seen it! It was fucking incredible- they were down 3 games to none and the came back to win four straight and the series!

"Fuck! I don't believe I missed that!"

It must suck being dead, huh?

"Tell me about it. By the way, the curse isn't about the Yankees, it's about the World Series."

Yeah, some dude in my comments mentioned something about that. Whatever, it was sweet to see 'em go down.

"Anyway, look I need to tell you something very, very important. You were bitten by a werewolf. You will become a werewolf. You need to..."

And then it just trailed off.

Holy fucking shit, the battery just died.

Dan? Dan- you there?

Fuck.

Now I gotta go to Mikey's hookup in the morning.

I'm really scared.

I've been listening to the dead man's iPod.

His name, apparently, is Daniel Reilly.

His friends called him Dan.

He's been speaking to me.

Someone, please- help me.

Lunar Eclipse!

Holy crap, people, not only will there be a total lunar eclipse next week, but it will happen when the Sox are in the World Series!

It's supposed to happen during game four, on October 27th, during a full moon. Holy crap. I know it's presumptious to assume that the Sox will sweep, but if they do, (or if they get swept) the curse will either remain solid or be finally broken under the eclipse of a full moon.

I don't know about you, but I think that's prettty freakin' cool.

It's weird, I never used to really give a crap about the moon, but these days, I'm kind of facinated by it. I don't know what to tell you.

Of course, If the series goes seven, the final game is October 31st.

Creepy.

Anyway, I'm off to Jersey tonight- I gotta cut my fingernails again. Weird, it's the third time this week I've cut 'em.

Go Sox!

Naked again

Hey all- writing from the apartment, stark naked again.

I've been finding that if I surround my desk with a thin circle of my own urine, it creates a nice, pungent circle of aroma that really allows me to create from a safe space. I know you might think it's gross or whatever, but artists are eccentric! To create art is to intentionally separate yourself from the world around you both literally and figuratively.

One cannot comment on the world at large if one does not create one's own personal watchtower from which to observe, can they?

Salinger enters a self imposed exile, Hemingway dove head first into war and adventure, and Edgar Allen Poe retreated into the madness of opium, so really, blogging in a puddle of my own piss doesn't seem THAT radical.

You'd think the folks at the Verb Cafe might be a little more understanding. I mean Jesus, one little squirt of piss, and I get thrown out of the whole mini-mall? The assholes broke my laptop, too. It's fucking bad enough they don't have Wi-Fi, now I can't even fashion my own personal creative space? What a bunch of phonies. Shit, Iggy Pop used to piss on everything in sight, and they loved him for it.

I am misunderstood.

Ah well- If they don't get it, I'm sorry, guys. The train to the new Bohemia is leaving the station, get on board or get out of the way!

Yeah!

I'm working at the video store tonight. Stop by if you're around.

I feel like a million bucks.

I just can't believe it.

Down 3-0, the Sox rally back and beat the Yankees. I spent the morning watching Sportcenter with a goofy-ass grin on my face. Johnny Damon just blew up the fucking Death Star. Also, my bite doesn't hurt at all, it's almost completely healed, and it looks like I'm going to have a bitchin' scar.

Well, one weird thing happened.

I was walking down Bedford in my Red Sox shirt, taking in the beautiful fall weather, and admiring the covers of the New York papers when this homeless guy started screaming at me.

"Cursed! YOU ARE CURSED!"

"What are you talking about dude? The Sox won, the curse is over" I said.

"You bear the mark of the devil! The wolf! You are cursed!"

I told the guy to step back, and once again reminded him that the Yankees had in fact, lost.

He lunged at me quickly, grabbed me by the lapels, and pulled me to his face. With a burst of cigarette and wine breath he hissed:

" I'm not talkin' about baseball, dipshit."

Then he wandered off.

Homeless people are crazy.

Thanks for all the comments, folks-

I've been having a stressful week, so your comments have helped, what with all the Red Sox drama, and the fact that I'm starting to have this insatiable urge to walk around naked.

The first couple of days, I chalked it up to Red Sox behavior. You know, after game 5, I got so excited that I literally howled.

Like, -howled- howled.

You know how they say "howl with laughter", and you're not really literally howling, you're just, you know- laughing really hard?

Well, when Ortiz hit that pitch over second base and Damon headed for home, I tore off my shirt, lept up on the leg of my couch, squatted on all fours, arched my back and just cut loose with a full-on, motherfucking, whole-throated animal howl.

And I'm not talking that pussy-ass Tarzan shit either. I'm talking pedal to the metal, animal on a bluff hunting the innocent type of : "How-How-How HOWLLLLLLLLL!!"

It was pretty rad, I'm not going to lie to you.

It felt so good that I just tore all my clothes off and kind peed a little bit on the leg of my couch- you know- just to remind me it's mine. I've been mostly naked since then, at least when I'm in the apartment.

Anyway, my cat pretty much lives under my bed permanantly now. I still put food out, and I know he eats it, seeing as when I come back to my apartment some of it is gone, but whenever I try to coax him out from under the bed, he hisses at me.

I don't know what is happening to me.

Game seven is gonna start in a few minutes.

I love the Red Sox, but I'm a little worried that this series is doing strange things to me.

Go Sox!

Had some weird dreams last night

I had this dream that I was in Yankee Stadium and it was totally empty, except for Johhny Damon and a sheep, who was on third base. Damon was in Center, I was in the right field bleachers, and suddenly, the sheep broke into a run for the plate.

Damon started after him , and as he was running, his hair got longer, there was a sick snapping noise, he got down on all fours, and started screaming. The next thing I know, the stadium was filled with screaming fans. I looked over my shoulder to see if I could figure out where they all came from- when I looked back to the field, Damon was gone and the sheep was being torn to bits by a large wolf.

What do you think that means?

I'm optimistic about the whole thing.

Last night the motherfucker couldn't even lay down a decent bunt, and now he's devouring live sheep?

I think it means the Sox have a good shot.

I'm gonna go walk around in the rain and think.

What a game!

Boy- that was a great Red Sox game tonight.

Normally, I'd put a link in for you, but Jeez- if you missed that one, you missed out.

I've been feeling a little better today, and not just because of the Sox. The bite wound on my shoulder has been feeling way better (it might be the few beers I drank tonight), and I've been having a pretty good time listening to the dead man's iPod.

By the way "The dead man's iPod" would be a great name for a band.

I've been thinking about that a lot recently, seeing as I kind of "inherited" the iPod of that hipster who got torn to peices a few weeks ago, and it occured to me that I might be in possession of one of the first "inherited" iPod's in history. OK, I guess it's really more stolen than inherited, but c'mon, I had a hell of night that night, and fuck- like his loved ones are really going to want to listen to that dude's collection of Pavement B-sides?

Fuck that, I earned it.

I guess what I'm saying is, it's a relatively new technology, and let's be honest, there aren't a lot of old guys who have iPods. I just think that's a neat thing, to get a dead man's iPod. I don't know how long an iPod lasts, but it could almost represent a new way to get to know one of your dearly departed loved ones.

I mean, in 40 or so years, there's gonna be a time when you inherit your grandfather's iPod, and you're hanging around listening to it, and you're like- "No Way! I had no idea that grandpa was into Opeth! They just seemed a little too hard for him, you know?

Also, I ate some cat food tonight.

It was pretty weird.

My cat's name is Grapes,(named for legendary Boston Bruins coach and Hockey Night in Canda announcer Don Cherry) and he's been kind of a dick to me recently. He hasn't been eating his food, and I've been a little sick of throwing away full cans of cat food.

So anyway, I put down food for him this morning, and he wouldn't eat it.

Around 10:30 tonight, it had gotten bad, and when I tried to put him in front of it, he hissed at me and ran away. So I was about to throw it away, when I picked it up and, jeez- I don't know, just started stuffing it into my mouth.

It wasn't that great, but at least I know now that it's edible.

I wish I knew what his problem was.

Long night tonight

Welcome to the first entry of my blog- I've been feeling pretty weird these days, and doing this thing seems to help. I've had kind of a fucked up couple of weeks, and work tonight was a hassle.

I work over at Reel Life on Bedford, and goddamn if the customers weren't breaking balls tonight.

I mean, fuck- I'm 31 years old, I work in a video store, my whole shoulder is still killing me from the bite I got from that weird animal a couple of weeks ago, and you gotta bust my balls that "The Burbs" isn't out on DVD?

Still, it was real nice to see the Red Sox win it tonight. I grew up in Boston, and one of the only bonds I still have to where I grew up is the Red Sox. It's a bummer there's no hockey too. At least the Pats are still kicking ass. It'd be sweet to see them beat the Jets next week.

Anyway, I guess I should tell the story- As it was a nice night, I was walking back home over the Williamsburg bridge a few weeks ago, (I guess it was late September) and I'll tell you, I'm never doing that again. I'd been drinking at Lansky Lounge (mistake #1), and when I got done, it was about 2:30. I was pretty drunk (mistake #2) and because it was a full moon and a beautiful night, I thought that there would be enough light to make it over in style.

Also, I'd smoked a fat one with this Indian guy (India Indian, not Native American- c'mon, I'm not a dick over here) and the idea of checking out the skyline on the bridge seemed appealing to me.

So anyway, as I get out on the bridge, I get a little paranoid. No biggie, I'm stoned, and I distract myself by staring straight up and checking out the bridge. That shit TOTALLY works, BTW. Anyway, when I'm about half way across, and on the way back down, I see this- THING, kind of shambling up the other way.

I look over my shoulder, and it's a long way back. Now I start to get a little worried. It looks like a dog, kinda slumped over and walking funny, but you know- bigger than a normal dog. Now I'm thinking that it's one of those goddamn pit bulls you see getting tugged around by one of those tiny, tattooed Williamsburg chicks. Seriously, you know those goddamn dogs I'm talking about, the ones that are on those big chains, like not a chain for a dog, more like a chain for an anchor? It's like, Jesus, I'm really sorry that something bad happened with you and your uncle when you were a kid, but do you have to take it out on the rest of us?

Still, I'm cool with dogs- I figure I'm already halfway across, and if you show your fear, that's when they get you. So I proceed forward (mistake #3). I get about 50 yards from this fucking thing, and no shit, this sound comes out of it that's like this long, rumbling, snarling growl. When you can hear a growl from 50 yards off, well fuck it. I'm stoned, not stupid. I turned around, and started walking the other way.

It was the howl that got me running.

You know how much it sucks to walk your ass off to get somewhere in this city, realize that you can't go that way, and you're gonna have to wait for a goddamn J train that's gonna take you forever just to get home?

It's worse when you're sprinting away from an undefined animal that wants to, you know- eat you.

I only remember bits and pieces of the rest.

The sounds from behind me- I could hear footsteps running at me- the weird thing is they changed- like it was kind of a loping, galloping sound at first, but as it got louder, it changed to a run. Like a human run- like there was a person behind me chasing me. I mean, I know it was that thing, cause all that was drowning out the fucking howling were my own screams.

I'm not a pussy or anything, but fuck, YOU get chased down by a snarling mutant pit bull running on two legs at three in the morning with a belly full of beer and nice ass weed-high on, and see if you sound any better than a shrieking 8 year-old girl. Seriously, try it- I'll tip my hat to you.

It hit me in the back and I rolled. It definitely had fur, and we rolled for about 15 feet. The weird thing about it was is that the only thing that hurt was my back, from that thing initially knocking me down. There was a burst of pain in my shoulder when it bit me, but the scratches, bruises and scrapes didn't hurt till I woke up in the hospital, which sucked even worse since I don't have health insurance.

I'm still kind of fucked on that end, BTW.

Here's my Health plan, if you give a shit.

The cops said I wasn't the only one they found on the bridge, but I was the only one alive. Over on the Williamsburg side they found a couple of dead hipsters who got torn apart, and on the Manhattan side they found another dead guy, this one naked (!) who was all scratched up and had gotten shot a couple times.

How about that- nice timing to take a naked stroll across a bridge. I mean, I got it pretty bad, but at least when I was running I didn't have to worry about this thing biting my junk off.

The good part about it is one of the hipsters had an iPod with him and I totally told the cops it was mine.

Pretty sweet, right?

Anyway, my shoulder's getting sore and it's getting late- more tomorrow-