Here's a little 50 word zapfic I decided to write this morning when I got up while I was having some breakfast.
Jinadan stared down the barrell of a gun; the air in the room was gone, soon the sound of all noise disappeared too.
"It would have been easier not to get involved," the gun wielder said with a hint of pitty in his voice.
A gunshot echoed, and then nothing.
Rebellion Fest
We're still here, still alive, and the bands are rocking out. I want to do a proper post about the trip as a whole when I'm on the computer as being on the phone I'm sort of limited.
All and all it's good, but my only complaint is that there's no Heineken, so instead of that I've been on Guinness. Now, I like Guinness, but my god, the farts after two days drinking it are terrible.
I just can't stop... I've litrally been cropdusting the venue and trying to act like it's not me doing it... I admitted it to the singer and guitariat last night on the way back to the hotel and they were shocked, "I was wondering who the smelly bastard was."
For context we met one of the Dublin punks lets say he's called Brian, when I confided in the lads about my issue they said.
"Fuck sake, I was blaming poor Brian there for stinking. We all had to cross the road to get away from the smell."
Terrible, exessive amounts of Guinness more than one night a week is awful and I'm dreading tonight.
Me and the drummer have been sharing a bed and when I fell asleep last night I was apparently blowing the sheets off the bed.
