THE WANKEL.
It's not been a day since last week's stupidly insane temperatures that I've been well. Its either, fever or soar throat, now with added cough and running nose to boot; but it seems (well to me anyway) that I might be on the road to recovery. Sortof. Y'see every time this week that any sort of progress has been shown I go and celebrate that with some crazy fried something and tonight not only have I consumed something fried, I added cigarettes and alcohol to the mix. Lovely. Now it's about 5:35 am and I've just returned from Passions, a place I haven't gone to in a bit and paid for quite a bit of alcohol that didn't even get me a wee bit tipsy.. Dear Jack, I think I might have to upgrade. The rest of the night was spent trying not to puke while coughing, watching nice cars pass by, and focusing on three (3) dancing asses; all belonging to chicks in tight skirts. And now all I can think about for some weird assed reason is about a damn speed meter. Why? I have no idea. And what's up with the title? Easy, I've been wanting an RX-7 this week; but as usual, the odds are against me a hundred to one. But as every conquest goes: I must be a man before I become King.