I tried some small Diet Cokes tonight. I don’t like Diet Coke. I really don’t. But these ones come in smaller cans. Surprisingly enough, I didn’t like them at all. They were smaller amounts of a liquid I hate, but that didn’t redeem them in any way shape or form. You’d think less of something terrible would be better, but it wasn’t. It doesn’t matter how many Black & Milds I smoke, or how many girls are in the hot tub, 8 FL Oz. Diet Cokes are for pussies. My girl Silvia drinks them all the time. Can I agree with her? No. Do I like her tattoos? Hell yeah I do. Wouldn’t you if you were me? I don’t know. I’m not you if you were me, but I still like them. The tattoos. The Diet Cokes? No no. Those Diet Cokes are not good. I just finished the last one. It didn’t feel cool drinking it. Not one bit even. If I put vodka in it, and took the Diet Coke out, and replaced the mini can with a bottle of vodka, then maybe it would be a bottle of vodka. But in some way it would still have the horribleness residue of the Mini Diet Coke. Is it because I am alone at 3:45 a.m., in my boxers, typing at a computer alone? NO. It’s because those little Diet Cokes are whack and it ain’t gonna happen. Not now, not never. So if you’re drinking an 8 FL Oz. Diet Coke, you are not a rap star, nor a club hopper, nor a pimp, nor a ho, nor a spinal surgeon, nor a clinical psychologist, nor a CPA. You’re not even a homeless meth-head with an insecure body image. You’re just another punk ass bitch drinking a mini Diet Coke.Like me.

Except I’m a Rap Star. A drugs ass Rap Star.

17/08/2006
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