Ptitchitza u niskom letu

On Self, the White Stain... Sahib

I snorted some vanilla sugar in this English/Irish bar yesterday (not far away from Thirsty Garry's which is closed until the 15th because of vacation), off the bench, in public view, as a joke (am not sure if anyone got it, I reenacted it really well!).

The second song they played upon my arrival (few minutes before the most beautiful, the most sexy, the most charming Ana Ivanovic, or what's her name just won her match) was WHITE LINES.

Everybody is convinced these days that I smoke crack cocaine incessantly.

It is true that I am addicted to white lines, though. But I had to give up on it. (Because I can't afford to fix my car, it's been out of service for a year, I demolished it some more couple of weeks ago, and police then towed it away and now not only I will go to jail for about a month, but would have to pay them tons of money for the costs of keeping my beautiful classic Mercedes with them anyway. Ahhh, keep it, fucking smurfs. Would be lovely to have my 2,000 euro stereo back, though.)

I'm letting the police keep my beautiful car. I loved the white lines on the Dutch highways too much (when cirmumstances allowed it). Germans always appreciated me for it, though.

Aaahh. Fukitol. I need a single ten kiloton pill of it.