L-O-V-E

So I found who I want to marry. No really, check it out: My future wife

Her name is Evgenia Podoplelova and she is a mail order bride from Russia. As far as the price of humans go, she is cheap, and for only 299 dollars more, I can buy her English lessons with books included. I just figure this whole "dating" thing might take too long, and nothing is garaunteed, so I might as well buy myself a bride.

Because the problem is, girls down here have too much freedom. And by that I mean, they're not bound to me by a state-recognized contract or sense of obligation. They may leave me at any time without facing any legal or financial consequences, and this is a problem for me because when I'm not busy standing outside women's bathroom windows, I'm busy scaring them off.

Yet I should just keep on trying. I can't set myself up for failure because that's called self-handicapping. I suck. I have to keep a positive mental attitude and reach for the stars. My legs are too hairy. Even if I I'm like that clown who makes little babies cry but nevertheless insists on shoving more and more balloon animals in their faces hoping they'll shutup or at least start sucking on an animal part, I must go on.

A little smile here. A little smile there. Hey baby, wuts up, I see you looking. Yeah. Cocky. Get cocky Greg. You're the shit.

Before I go make toasted bagels in my bathtub, I'd like to leave you all with this message: Lust... that's just a fleeting chemical high, but love... love, my friends, will pull you from the depths of despair, from the bottom of the deepest well, or from selling yourself in the redlight district in Russia. I'm telling you guys this chic is a c-u-t-i-e. I'm gonna go gather my pennies.