proof that ticketmaster is evil

so i'm looking to get a couple tickets to Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. To confirm that I am a real person, Ticketmaster asks me to type the word shown in an image. Today, they gave me this:

drunken poitry

somewhere toward the middle of that large, flat g-n-t
i made good on my suspicion
my poetry will be amazing
but now
like a 17-year cicada
it tastes mostly like potato

happy birthday, bridget...

oh bridget, i'm sorry we've lost track. there's so much to do that i usually ignore my local friends way more than i want, let alone my friends from college.

your birthday is indelibly branded into my brain, on account of the speeding ticket. how did i know i was going to get my first speeding ticket that day? how did i get it just farther enough in the day that i'd forgotten about my own prognostication? why did the cop claim i was going 69? there's no way i was doing 69.

i remember shouting "there's no way i was doing 69" across willamette hall. seems to me, if you're doing 69, you'd probably remember it. i mean, 69 isn't easy to do well, if at all. how many of us were there? in a little toyota? almost seems physically impossible to do 69 with four friends in a corolla. it's friggin' oregon! why is 69 even illegal? probably on account of the gas.