turn those clapping hands into angry balled fists!

eating pasta salad, you might not believe it, but i'm a bonafide member of the under-world.

we had romantic picnic on the seediest beach at coney island wearing adventurous hats.
i'm still glad that none of the buried-deep syringes poked up from their sand graves to stab my barley-armored-butt. i think the air-brushed neon rides mocked my wicker hat. ass-holes! she maaaade me wear it!
we took photo booth photos. coney island has the strangest patrons.

after we packed up our picnic paraphernalia we went to a punk show in the city where there were many a' punk kid. it was a good times.

i passed out and woke up for diner breakfast.
there are so many jehova's witnesses in brooklyn heights. i wish they were mormon instead.