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Come on baby light my fire
Written on 2001-08-17, at 2:37 a.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Turkey Swiss and Ranch sub from Quiznos

1 Venti Tazoberry and Cream

1 Bag of chips

3 Smirnoff Ices

7 Delicious cigarettes

I've decided to stop caring about my cigarette intake, when I stop, I'll stop.

Let's just hope I do it before my voice starts to sound like Bea Arthur.

So tonight the club was jumpin' jumpin'.

We went out to Southern Nights to have us a gay ol' time.

And lo and behold, something quite interesting happened...

I met someone from Diaryland.

"Well John, there are lots of people in Orlando that use Diaryland, that's not very interesting you dolt."

Well, smarty-pants, he wasn't from Orlando...It was none other than Eon, from England.

It was interesting for me, after reading someone's diary for so long, then meeting them in person.

But I must say, he was quite cute, and charming, and it's a shame he's going to be spending his exchange year in Colorado, and not Florida.

I almost set the club on fire tonight.

And I'm not talking about my superstar dancing.

I'm talking about the "call IXII" type of fire (that was for my fans of Roman Numerals).

My friends and I kept smelling smoke somewhere on the patio, but couldn't tell where it was coming from.

Oh, we're standing in front of a large fan, that's important...

So, the smoke...it smells really bad, but we can't see it, and in central Florida, it's a safe bet that something is going to be on fire at any given time, so we really didn't pay it much attention.

That is, until the flames started erupting.

Well, not really flames, but sparks...all over the place.

So, I did what anyone would to in that situation.

Screamed and flailed about like a good little homosexual.

Which, apparently, only makes it worse, because as I flailed about, I was kicking at the glowing ember, sending more and more sparks up into the air.

This really seemed like a no-win situation for me.

Nevermind the fact that I was stomping out this inferno with my new $200 shoes.

So, being afraid that my hair would catch fire for all the product in it, I removed myself from the situation (by running like a girl) and allowed my friend with cheaper shoes to stomp it out.

No wonder they call me a flamer.

Be well...


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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