My sister died. Reading the text that I sent

My sister died. Reading the text that I sent her. The text I sent her in a fit that she wouldn't support me about Garret. I regret it every day.

I regret letting her have the last gogurt, too. She had that in her lunch as the car careened off that cliff. Not to mention she borrowed my phone charger. Shit, and my lip balm.

I tried to curse the gods but my lips were chapped shut. Was I trapped in a Burt's Bees ad? I forced a grin and opened a window, hoping that cliché would end it. An animated swarm

of agents barged in telling me my music needed "changes". Like explicit language so they could get the advisory. And "Drinky Crow" album art. They wanted the next Gorillaz. Yuck.

So I stood up and told them "Yo, dawgs, homey don't play dat. Ya wanna jive wit' me? Ya gotta play it all cool. None o' dat Drinky Crow stuff, y'know?" Man, I am so white.

Although I'm undeniably white, these dawgs didn't know that this particular homey could jive with the best of them. Good thing I brought my dancing shoes.

Fred Estair had entered the body of Michael Jackson. Just as Dr. Conrad was about to call 911, MJ jumped to life and said

Redrum. Redrum. Danny doesn't live here anymore, Mrs. Torrence. Dr. Conrad jumped back, shocked at what was coming out of Michael Jackson's finger. Why, why did I ever

subscribe to Rot & Guts Magazine? No point dwelling on it now. Dr Conrad was in shock so I rushed to get his smelling salts. I turned and tripped over a large