i'm going to regret this in the morning.

flying a ship full of misfit toys across the galaxy, trying to make a buck any way we can. basically, every day i don't die is a pretty good day, even if i still wind up with a fat lip.

making questionable life choices, getting into trouble and talking my way out of it, and pretty great at running the fuck away from my problems.

i think it was a shitty christopher walken impression, made even shittier by the fact that he died like seven hundred years ago and i had very little source material.

chocolate, guns, toilet paper, bourbon, trashy daytime television, an escape plan.

the meaning of life, whether bigfoot really did exist all those years ago back on terra, why i deflect anything remotely serious with vague humor.

my hairbrush. have you seen it?

you're not a serial killer, a psycho, or wearing black shoes with a brown belt.