Mr. "Shittiest Bass Player in America" has found a drummer. It's like a garage band only in an apartment. A ghetto apartment with paper thin walls and one fairly high-strung, overtired, on-the-edge law student about to lose her fucking mind. Tomorrow I call management. It's either that or I have to find a way to break in so that I can get some hair or something to start the voodoo curse process. One way or the other I've had it.
