  Nothing to say... nothing to say... nothing. Hey you in your big ass car with your NJ plates, racing through the merge. I want you to explode into a fire ball. I want your jewlery to fuse to your steering wheel. I want your dentist to have to identify your body. Get off my highways. Breathlikebutt's condo wasn't haunted, to my disappointment. All of my info on the situation came to me via "telephone game" style communications, therefore all paranormal activities had been overblown. Nonetheless, I spent the weekend in Breathlikebutt's bed. Which was kind of horrific in its own right. Probably the strangest occurance all weekend was waking up with Breathlikebutt's hands groping my skull. Now, I was on his girlfriend's side of the bed and I could understand if I woke up with his arm draped across my waist, or maybe on my ass or something.
But what is he doing to her head at night? Strange indeed. Other than that, Baltimore was relatively uneventful. Highlights included watching a band called Slipdisk (the white, suburban beltway version of Prince and the New Power Generation) rock out in Ellicot City and playing a PS2 game called Red Dead Revolver. Don't buy this game unless you've got no ambition to do anything else. 
