I wasn't surprised when I got to JB, all wide eyed and mind staring at the phallic symbol that rises from the atlantic coast. Beyond the second lots rising dune, and brush, Shakedown blossoms with gnarly characters that, in my day to day life, I would most likely reject, like myself, from my own store front sure that they would "shake me down" for the keys to my chalice! Quite the adventurer, I wandered to the female dominated port-o-let, line where I was met by hostility. Boys can do it outside according to these female centerpieces. Cordially I wandered to the ocean, intent on baptizing myself with the Atlantic's sperm laden rip curl. Mass bulk chronicles of the ocean's capturings, having risen from the murky depths, flooded the shore, and page's key work could do nothing to keep them from blogging the scene with their tweets, face book status changes, my space updates, and neo-natal intensive care unit fiascos. Life was but a bundle of joyous excuses for being out-whitted by the gnarliest of cocaine cowboys. World turns, head spin, my leg is broke and here goes another hour of my life!


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