Blood, Scars, and Hangovers

It's about all thats on my mind every November 1st; goddamn, Halloween is such a kick-ass holiday. This year my bloody wounds don't even have a good story, after numerous tall-boys of PBR I wrecked on my way back home, about 20 feet from the front door of my building, it was rad. Scraped up those clean-ass Nitto bars and both my elbows, I'm really quite astounded that I made it though the alley-cat I raced in without killing myself, hauling ass on these mountain streets in the sort of stupor that usually leads one towards activities of the felonious type: trick or treat motherfucker. The after race party was loud and rowdy, just like it should have been, stretching across two apartments and spilling out into the connecting hallways, all guests with the aforementioned tall-boys in hand, either that or one of those fucking lethal "irish trashcan" drinks getting ripped to the tits on the caffeine and liquor, fucking degenerates. God only knows how many of those things i poured down my throat, all i know is that i was feeling it this morning. Feliz Dia de los Muertos.
-signing off.

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