It has been a tragically fine break in the thought bank of this blog. In an attempt to salvage my creativity from the junkyard of lethargy, I write again. Looking to the future, I realize that the man standing in the cramped, dimly lit booth creating a makeshift entrance to this junkyard of mine will charge me for taking this creativity home with me. Since this would surely be the case, I write this post from the inside of what I assume is a rusty car, next to a pinball machine with no pin nor ball, and a creepy poster of a magician with the head of a rabbit pulling a skull out of his hat. Not much inspiration from this perspective, but we roll on. If you have never been to a junkyard that is, oddly sufficient, your neighbors garage then you cannot fully appreciate the absolute fear that presents itself as a mild mannered UCLA business graduate looking for a lost t-shirt with a terribly yet spunky pun sown onto the front. This disguise is to be trusted by no one. What a horrible misfortune that my name in that moment was in fact "no one". So I succumbed to the ever-present fear and began searching for the aforementioned jersey.
At least it wasn't a New Jersey. Hahaha. It was at that moment I realized that "Sean", as UCLA boy is now calling himself oh so pretentiously, had a terrible aura about him that caused terrible puns to escape through the sleeping joke guards whose entire responsibility it was to keep such jokes from entering into this overpunulated country. Years ago, my joke guards died in the terrible pun flood of 2006. You can imagine the aftermath... girls kept their distance, friends stopped being friends, and old people laughed so hard they died prematurely, though not by much. This tangent bringing us full circle to the point of me finding my creativity while inadvertently being distracted by Sean and his filthy jersey of puns.
Transitionally,
Kyle
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