On Sunday morning

I have a theory
that any man who'se known me on a Sunday morning and still remains my friend is a man worth keeping around. (yes, there are exeptions, and yes, you get extra credits if you were actually my bf at the time)

We went to a lovely whorehouse yesterday, where i managed to sneak into the loo to tip the pregnant prostitute w/o her employees noticing. That's all there is worth mentioning from that place.

Then we went to the jazzclub, danced, drink, drank, drunk, went home, partied, fell asleep. And here i am, labourday, the only one awake in a full house, like so many times before, trying to work, like so many times before, drinking too much coffee, like always. I can't seem to wrap my mind around why, when this lifestyle is everything i hate about the civilized world, these are my best moments. Oh, oh oh, we're natural born sinners.