paul mitchell.
being a hair stylist.
special effects makeup.
horror movies.
parliment lights.
kissing.
silk city tattoo.
new brunswick.
edison stone st.
wrestling.
spitting.
ru grill.
axis lounge.
the stuido.
smashing things.
mike kuzio.
green tea.
tattoos.
piercings.
shows.
bettie page.
back to the future movies.
rob zombie.
ripping tee-shirts.
red&black.
making weird shapes look like things
andy warhol.
crayons.
my super sweet 16.
the smell of rain.
fireplaces.
dreadlocks.
most important*skulls*.
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frankenstien could def kick wolf mans ass
Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones
STEVE HARRIS