Damn. This is why I can’t play poker.
Hugh Hefner saved the Hollywood sign.
I fucking love this town.
That is all.
I just woke up from a dream where I was giving a blowjob from the passenger seat of a flying version of the Ferris Bueller Ferrari.
The car had actual wings, and we were doing all sorts of low altitude aerial acrobatics by the Santa Monica Pier as if it were one of those Red Bull air races.
Every time the faceless Ferrari pilot would do barrel rolls his belt buckle would hit me in the head, and I would feel genuine embarrassment that tourists on the pier were looking up at me sucking his cock.
It was so vivid.
No words. None.
Day two was ten straight hours of bliss. My brain is running out of serotonin, and I’ve lost dozens of IQ points. Fuck it, my soul is filled with music.
Time to go dance.
Day two. Every part of my body is sore, including my pussy. I feel fucking great, though. No hangover, and still rolling a little bit from last night’s impromptu desert resort love fest.
I’m half-retarded at the moment, so I’ll make this short. Yesterday was amazing. Kate Miller-Heidke was adorable. Iglu & Hartly had fantastic energy. Yeasayer rocked my fucking world. Passion Pit wasn’t loud enough to seep into my soul, but I’m sure all the folks up front tasted the rainbow. La Roux was awkward. I was crammed next to a jealous lesbian couple who radiated negative energy to every cute dancing girl in their vicinity. Petty bullshit, but it kind of ruined the moment. LCD Soundsystem killed it, and Vampire Weekend was like a delicious palate cleansing morsel before Jay Z came along and did his thing.
All in all, a great day. They oversold the festival by tens of thousands this year, so it’s a total clusterfuck out on the field. Great people-watching, though.
Okay. Enough for now. I’m off to the pool.