Ween Weeningson Goes To The Beach

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2. .......I had to come up with another title?

So, Meth. No, I'm not copying Heisenburg and his antics. I can't afford to do that. My meth is how they say on the street, cloudy. Its made in a dirty lab, by an angry man with chemicals literally extracted from things a child can afford on his monthly allowance. Or the disability pension, whichever. Pseudo-ephedrine, from medicines, phosphate from this, acid from that. Look, this isn't a crime thriller here. I mix the chemicals, try not to start a fire and then give it to my rodent looking friend for a small profit. That profit goes towards something i want. A Cat, a TV, a fucking Hello Kitty skinned MacBook Pro. I don't care. Not my problem. I consume marketing bullshit, I die when im 40. This is my plan. No guns, no police, no Jesse Pinkman, no beanies, I don't even wear a gas mask in a weird hope that the chemicals will get me high and I'll die in a huge blaze of glory. I say this as i mix the catalyst with the counter reactant. You don't understand that. It's okay, neither do I. 

 

After my endeavour in chemical fun time {taking approximately 2 hours} I sit on my couch, grab my Hello Kitty MacBook {what you thought i was fucking kidding about that?} and browse the internet. Here, nobody knows I'm an albino, here, i cant play any games, because MacBooks are terrible. I just wanted it for the kitty. STOP JUDGING ME. We all have a metaphorical Hello Kitty MacBook. Yours is just a bondage fetish or something. It is here, on my bad wifi internet, surfing for Redhead Girl wallpapers on Google Images, that i received a harrowing email, a deadly popup at the bottom of my screen, like in a bad scifi show.

"I Need 2 this week" 

 

Two? For fucks sake. I have to leave the house. 

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