Breshvic Penicillin, (or Breshvic Penicillin as he likes to be called), has the sort of sad eyes of somebody straight out of Auschwitz or, failing that, Compton. There was a time in his life when he thought that wearing a tie with a t-shirt was clever, and soon after realized that his girlfriend ratio had not improved or changed at all. Now he seems to think that writing silly blurbs and appearing on the sidebar of a web page will improve his girlfriend ratio.
He lives alone in whatever part of the world will make him feel more like a Dharma Bum with his cat, who has a sick fascination with watching him make out with the girls he’s brought home, to the point where he sadly has to put her into a seperate room so that the cat can be petted.
He has recently settled with the fact that he will never be a witty as Twain, as poetic as Gibran, as observant as Hunter S. Thompson, as dark as Poe, or as funny as Vonnegut. So he has begun a lifelong search for a better adjective to suit him and his writing. SO far,
facetious is looking pretty adequate.
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