well its december and I'm writing another book.
The Perfect Taco
'Preface'
When the sky opens up and i'm alone with the world I'll look towards oblivian and smile, because there will be so very much to look forward to. As the world walks down death row God will ask me what I desire for my last meal and I'll laugh and say "The perfect taco"
The beginning of the enD(chapter one)
Louisiana in september is like an obscene phone call from nature, it's hot, sticky, and on occasion quite offensive. I can understand his plight, I'm looking for something too, but it's not adventure. I'm after the perfect taco. Most people would tell me that i'd have better luck in Mexico, I'll tell you right now that these people have sh!t for brains. The perfect taco is a state of mind and being, not a luaghable attempt at psuedo-mexican cuisine as made by a poorly furnished resturant chain.
This all started,ironically enought, at a Taco Bell, probably five years and, oh say ten seconds ago, my friend looked at me from across a plastic table and said "ya know, there's just no such thing as the perfect taco.". At first I didn't think much of it, but when I got back to my apartment it hit me like a sac of frozen swedes. No matter where you go, or how good it tastes, a taco is always missing something, but not just the taco, everything is always perfect, just minus that special something.
this is obviously not proofread or entirely complete, but comment anyone.