Where were you when the world ended?

Well, where were you?

I was right there in the middle of it, man. It was the worst Christmas ever.

I was right there in the middle of it, man. It was the best concert ever.

Wait, the world ended? I was asleep.

I was right there in the middle of it, fucking it up so that it would end the wrong way.

I was walking in the park screaming dead baby jokes at the ducks.

I was in the subway. Couldn't get out for hours until the power came back on.

I must have missed that movie.

I was safely encased in the invincible armor of my mecha.

I was right about to make it to level 60, then I fucking lagged out.

So that explains my hangover.

The end of the world? First I've heard about it. Who threw the first nuke?

WTF, mates?

It ain't the end, man. Just gotta drop in a few more quarters.

I was randomly crawling the Internet for scat porn and came across a post in somebody's blog about the end of the world.

Richard Kyanka Was Right.

For those of you perplexed by the title of this post, Richard "Lowtax" Kyanka is the founder, owner, and webmaster of comedy website Something Awful, whose motto has long been "The Internet Makes You Stupid." Well, in recent news nearish my neck of the woods, yet another monumentally stupid thing has happened to corroborate this statement.

A Navy man who got mad when someone mocked him as a "nerd" over the Internet climbed into his car and drove 1,300 miles from Virginia to Texas to teach the other guy a lesson.

As he made his way toward Texas, Fire Controlman 2nd Class Petty Officer Russell Tavares posted photos online showing the welcome signs at several states' borders, as if to prove to his Internet friends that he meant business.

When he finally arrived, Tavares burned the guy's trailer down.

This week, Tavares, 27, was sentenced to seven years in prison after pleading no contest to arson and admitting he set the blaze.

I believe the victim of this heinous act of stupidity has spoken for us all:

"I didn't think anybody was stupid enough to try to kill anybody over an Internet fight," said John Anderson, 59, who suffered from smoke inhalation while trying to put out the 2005 blaze that caused $50,000 in damage to his trailer and computer equipment.

I am more or less at a loss for words really. I plan to send the link of this story to Lowtax; he can probably make better comic use of it than I can. Needless to say, the Internet does indeed make you stupid, so, gentle reader, remember as you wander away from my blog: In your unending quest for the ultimate manifestation of your particular unspeakable deviancies, take the opinions of others with a massive grain of salt lest you run the risk yourself of... wait, what was I talking about? Oh, fuck it. You know what I mean anyway.

Eiarugh. (No, I don't know how to pronounce that either.)

Well, it's been a few weeks since it happened, but the significant other that I have alluded to in previous posts and I have parted ways. No, I don't feel like telling you about it. Even though nobody reads this. Just thought I'd get it out in the open for the random passers-by who have enough curiosity to divert their attention momentarily from their quest for scat-swapping nun porn (what else would you be looking for to consider holyshitno.blogspot.com a worthwhile link?) to read this garbage. In unrelated news, I've been rather pissed off and disillusioned about my whole direction in life lately, but you don't care. Hell, you probably don't even know me. I'm not really sure why I'm bothering with this post. Jesus Nutbusting Christ on a Fucking Toaster Oven that sounded emo. I'm not really as depressed as I sound though. Just angry and frustrated at the whole world, especially me. Eh. Fuck it. I don't care and neither do you. Go back to looking for SWAP.avi fanfic, you disgusting Internet scum-crawlers.

Title

Post content.

Me again...

And I'm bored off my ass and wasting time, so I figure, "what better way to waste time than by posting in my blog?" Dunno what to write though. That's the problem with this whole load of bullshit that we call "Web 2.0." There's all this capability to develop all sorts of content and publicize it on our own, but how many of us actually have any content worth publicizing? If YouTube is any indication, not many.

I just asked my roommate, whom we'll call "Ginger," if he had any advice on content for this blogpost. He said I should say that he's making out with a dead cat upstairs. This simply furthers my case that 98% of Web 2.0 is crap.

On the other hand, this could just be Ginger being Ginger. He often comes into the apartment late at night muttering insane, quasi-sarcastic conspiracy theories about the Jews. One of my favorite of these rants was about how the Hindu Jewish Lesbian Furries are out to steal our cattle.

Well, I'm tired of making this random shit up for now, so I'm a-gonna just call this post finished because I'm too lazy to come up with an original-sounding ending.

Things, Stuff, and Things Involving Stuff

So yeah, I know what you're thinking: "Great post title." I know, I know, I've really outdone myself this time. Anyway, I suppose I just figured I'd go ahead and post something for no readily apparent reason because you all love me so much and miss reading my blog.

*cough* sarcasm *cough*

Holy shit; I'm going to Japan!!! Yeah, any of you who know me already know this, so I'll just recap for the random visitor that my better half and I saved up our monies all summer in order to buy plane tickets and since then we've been saving spending money. Right now, we're just in a state of "ohmyfuckengodweregoingtotokyoholyshiticantbelieveitohmygodohmygodsqeeeeee!!!!!!" as we prepare for our impending trip. I just sort of worry that my parents will be disappointed to see us come back without having gotten secretly married, what with their understanding of our relationship being so... how shall I say it... nonexistent.

So, that's a tiny fragment of the news from my cold, humid, dark, foetid corner of the Internet. The rest is none of your business. Go back to your search for scat porn, which is probably how you came across this anyway.

Ahoy-hoy!

I'm really bored right now, so I think I'll post something in my blog. Let's see here, last post was something deep and personal, so this time it should be random crap. Hmm... random crap... That's it! Crap! Why do they call it taking a shit? It's output, not input. Logically, it should be called giving a shit. Then there's so many people who say they don't give a shit. That's not just anal retentive. That's outright toxic. But at least that expression of apathy isn't as weird as "I don't give a rat's ass." I don't know about you, but I dont WANT a rat's ass. You don't give a rat's ass? Good. Keep the damn thing if you're that unwilling to part with it. Weird fetish if you ask me, but whatever floats your boat. And where's the rest of the rat? What do these hoarders of rat asses do with the rest of the poor innocent rodents that have to die for their bizarre amusement? I take that back; I don't want to know. Probably involves a fingernail clipper, a cigarette lighter, two and a half used condoms, and a webcam. Before you say anything of what you're probably starting to think, no, I don't know any of this from experience. I am making all of this up... I hope. I'm not going to try to find out. You can if you like, but be warned, the Internet is a huge metropolis with lots of unsavory back alleys. Just look at my blog. Reads like the results of a thousand retarded monkeys hammering away at a thousand typewriters that are all missing the letter e... and I don't mean the paper output.

I Haven't Posted in a While...

...and I'm kinda bored now, so I figured I'd write an update for all three to five of you out there that actually read this. First of all, some clarifications on things I may have said in the past. Yes, I know that my last post, "The Disease" is, biochemically speaking, complete and total bunk. When I wrote it, I was a dumb, sardonic high school senior. It's still kinda funny, though, so I don't fuckin' care.

Now for my update. I could talk about recent events in my life, but the two of my readers that I personally know and trust with my psychological baggage already know. The rest of you, tough shit, not that you really care anyway. I'm not trying to be bitter here, though, and recent events haven't been all bad, but... oh you know what I mean, and if you don't know, you probably don't really care all that much. (This is why I don't update very often, and when I do, it's usually some random crap. I've got to write for my nearest, dearest friends and for total strangers at the same time. Kind of a pain in the ass.)

Anyway, aside from all the weirdness, I'm happier than I've ever been before in my life. Well, perhaps it's better to say that for the first time in my life, I'm actually happy. Those of you who know me know why. As for the rest of you, I'll just tell you that I've found love. It's more complicated than you're thinking, though, and yet also more simple. We're not really anything as complicated and loaded with emotional baggage as a couple; we just love each other very much. It's absolutely wonderful, as though we've found a way to skip the huge societally mandated clusterfuck of mind games, anxiety, and angst that's been built up around love. It's true, it's pure, it's clean, it's free, it's beautiful. Of course, to the outside world, we look like a couple, and as far as my family goes, it's just easier to let them think we are than to explain the real situation. It's really kind of funny. I really feel she's The One, though.

The Disease

I am thoroughly convinced that someday a scientist will spoil the fun of poets across the ages by proving that romantic love is an infectious disease. Think about it. You’ve been in love before. You know what it feels like. It feels like an illness. I am certain that it will be found to be a highly contagious virus acting on the nervous system. Its effects seem primarily to be severe impairment of judgement, apparent loss of concentration*, extreme heightening of the senses, and, in many cases, cardiac pain.

It only happens to a patient who happens to be in a state of total emotional nonbeing. The virus enters the body, probably through the nose and the olfactory bulb, and works its way through the entire nervous system. The incubation period is totally unlike the unaffected state in every way: Instead of feeling nothing, the patient actually feels everything all at once. This strange, unsettling time, unlike most pathogenic incubation periods, which last a specific amount of time, lasts until some association is made by the patient’s subconscious mind between some form of incredibly deep psychological security and a person.**

After this happens and the associated synaptic chemicals are released, the antigens produced by the virus begin the Smiting. The antigens actually inhibit the uptake of the very endorphins that initiated the process. Due to the psychological association that ended the incubation period, the levels of the endorphins are increased every time the patient thinks of the beloved. During this first stage of love, the patient is totally carefree and has the capacity to feel happy despite even the most profound motivations for despair. This is just with normal occupation of the patient’s thoughts. When they are occupied with the beloved, the patient is in a state of total euphoria, as if it were something tangible that one could wrap around oneself like a cocoon. Like a narcotic intoxication, it is a wonderful feeling, and the patient wants to feel nothing else. The patient’s psychological “happy place” becomes no specific place other than at the side of the beloved.

Thusly Smitten, the patient feels at all times the driving obsessive compulsion to think of the beloved more and more frequently until the beloved occupies every waking (and probably sleeping) second of the patient’s thoughts. This is the beginning of the second stage, the Addiction. Feeling absolutely euphoric all the time is finally recognized as abnormal by the nervous and immune systems, and the brain-mind complex realizes that the fantasy is insufficient and must be made real. The euphoria is replaced by a thirsty, insatiable, heart-shattering, pull-your-hair-out, cry-yourself-to-sleep longing, an unfathomable longing simply to be with the beloved. The patient only feels complete when the beloved is within sight, though the euphoria is still felt at these times. At all other times, though, the patient wishes against all possibility to feel anything so happy as severe mind-crushing depression. The Addiction is just like any normal addiction, only sufficiently stronger as to merit capitalization.

After the Addiction sets in, the virus’s work is essentially done*, and anything following is largely under the jurisdictions of the mind of the patient and the mind of the beloved. The outcome everyone hopes for is the “happily ever after” [expletive deleted], but this hardly ever happens. The far more common ending is for the Addiction to deteriorate into emotional self-destruction. The patient’s actions become increasingly irrational as the desperation of the Addiction spirals deeper into the Abyss. (You know what Abyss I’m talking about.) At the end of it all, the patient reaches the stage of acting like a complete abject fool and feeling nothing but depression all the time. The depression is forceful enough to render the patient completely apathetic. Part of the patient dies when love fails. The course of the disease is run, and the patient deals in his/her normal way with ordinary depression. There is a period of grieving followed by return to the ground state of emotional nonbeing.

This is the process of the disease. This is the melancholy process that Corporate America exploits every February, making a killing on stupid greeting cards, morbid flowers standing in some strange limbo between normal life and death, overpriced jewelry, and a mixture of paraffin, sucrose, and tile grout that they somehow manage to pass off as chocolate.

The real pestilence afflicting us is not the viral infection of love, but the cultural tumor that exploits it.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

__________________________
* Apparent because the patient is concentrating, but only upon his/her beloved.
** This could possibly imply that all people inherently start out bisexual, but this is of no import to this essay.

Orphenstein, or: So that's how they get the monkeys to wear those stupid vests...

Recent events have given me an amusing tale of spills and thrills with my bicycle.

On Monday, September 12, I was riding home from class down a sidewalk when I came upon an entrance to a parking lot. There was a car exiting the lot, so I had to steer around behind it, an action which, given my speed of about 30 miles per hour, made it impossible for me to see the truck turning into the lot until I was about a yard away from it. I slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. My handlebar ends made a dent in the truck’s side panel twice the size of my head. The owner of the truck was able to pop most of this dent out with a plunger, and our settlement resulted in my paying him $75 to go toward paintless dent repair for the three fist-sized dents that remained. I sustained minor scrapes and bruises to my right elbow.

My bicycle was totaled. The diagonal support bar was bent so far down that the pedals were interfering with the front wheel. The top crossbar was shorn open around two thirds of its circumference in response. On Wednesday, I bought a $25 propane blowtorch and some solder, as this was much cheaper than replacing the bike. That night, I bent the diagonal bar back into an operable position and did a very poor job of soldering the tear in the top bar. After these repairs, the bike worked just fine, with the exception that I began to notice a drastic decrease in brake functionality, since the reduced structural integrity of the frame could no longer stand up to such high degrees of torsion.

So that Friday, I was riding home on my soldered-together bicycle on the same sidewalk as before, and still quite fast, when I came to the same parking lot entrance as before. I saw a university vehicle beginning to turn into the lot. At my current distance and speed, I knew that I was probably going to hit it. The phrase “not again” floated through my mind, so my instinct for self-preservation made my hands clench around the brake levers. Tightly.

At this time, three things happened all at once. First, the drive chain derailed. Second, I realized that there had been some shearing in the diagonal bar that I had not seen and repaired as I heard the sound of that bar snapping. Third, my body was thrown forward over the handlebars as the bike flew backwards from under me. “You fucking dumbass, you should have just bailed out,” said my rationality to my instinct in the split instant in which my body was twisting in midair to minimize impact injury. I hit the ground on my left side, catching most of the fall with my elbow and lower leg. Standing up with this new set of minor scrapes and bruises, I saw my bicycle in the sort of position that would make one wince to see human limbs in.

"Fuck!" I said.

Post crash inspection indicated that although injury to the dummy was negligible, the vehicular repair would place an amateur in over his head.

So I took my machine up to the folks at Aggieland Cycling to seek their sage advice. Much to my lack of surprise, they told me that the damage was irreparable, that I was lucky not to have impaled myself on it, and that my best bet was to get either a new frame or a new bike. They recommended University Pawn as a source for a potential salvage frame.

I went to the pawn shop and bought a piece of shit with its shifter wires completely fucked for $50. I took it back to the bike shop only to find that the rear derailleur (yes, that is the correct spelling) attachment systems were incompatible for a frame transplant. So I stood there with the two derelicts for a while and finally said, "You know what, I'm gonna sleep on this."

In the parking lot, the guy who was helping me bring the bikes out to my truck said to me, "How 'bout I give you another frame for freebie? You know, so you've got plenty to think about?"

"For free?" I queried.

"Free." he said.

"You're joking, right?"

Then he walked me over to a junkheap hidden behind a hedge on the side of the building. Basically, it was a pile of fucked-over used bikes (or the largest pieces thereof) that they had accumulated by means unknown and were going to throw away or strip for parts or some such shit. He pointed out the broken-down frame of a red Peugeot and indicated that I should take it.
This series of events drove home the realization that the folks at Aggieland Cycling are brigands.

Upon my arrival home, I did some careful inspection. The bike from the pawn shop was a busted piece-of-shit Magna Great Divide that would sell new at Wal-Mart for about $100, and its frame was incompatible to boot. It would certainly be a trade down from what my old Diamondback Ascent had been.

The Peugeot was a different story entirely. It was one broken-down son of a bitch, but it was a damn good frame. The mechanisms all seemed to be completely compatible for transplant. Like my fallen steed, this had once been a great horse, and it would probably have cost $700-$1000 when it was new. This would be the new frame.

Feeling somewhat like Orpheus and somewhat like Frankenstein, I spent the rest of that Friday night stripping the frames, transplanting brake and transmission components, and allowing the cold I was coming down with to go to fully incubated virulence. (God damn water fountain kissers.)

The next day, I took the Magna back to University Pawn and sold it back to them for $25. After shutting myself into the cab of my truck, I muttered "Cheap-ass, chrome-dome, child-molesting saprophyte mother-fuckers." It would be quite some time before I could get anything more done with my operation.

By Thursday, September 22, I had succeeded in giving the Peugeot (which I had by now christened Eurydice) the Ascent's drink holder, wheels, brake pads, rear derailleur, handlebars, and brake and shifter levers and wires. I had wired the front brakes and couldn't figure out why I wasn't able to wire the rear ones. I had also succeeded in totally screwing up the front shifter mechanism. Feeling that I was in over my head again and knowing that I would need a new seatpost, I took this unholy crimson clusterfuck into Cycles, Etc, whom I know already not to brigands, but they don't take checks. (I don't like to use my debit card. Most of the time I keep it in my safe deposit box.) Anyway, by the end of this round of bike shop dickering, I had dropped $90 on a new set of shifter and brake levers and wires, a seatpost, a rear brake line stop (that was why I couldn't wire the rear brakes,) and a special order of a seatpost attachment collar that would also hold this brake line stop in place. So I took these parts home, put the seat on the post, wired the front brakes, and discovered what a bitch derailleurs are to wire and calibrate. The rear brakes would have to wait.

Finally, yesterday the seatpost collar came in. I went and got it, took it home, wired the rear brakes, and gave it a test drive. This yielded two observations: the brakes weren't tight enough, and the frontal chainrings were so badly bent out of shape that they would not hold the chain. I finally came to the conclusion that I would need to transplant the Ascent's chainrings and cranks onto Eurydice, but, since I lacked the necessary tools, I would need to go to a bike shop again. Having locked up my debit card again, and not wanting to go back to those brigands at Aggieland Cycling, I took Eurydice and the largest remaining piece of the Ascent over to BCS Bicycles. Thirty dollars later, the chainrings and cranks were replaced, the brakes were tightened, and some necessary adjustments were made to the front derailleur.

All told, I ended up spending $170 on a bike that would probably cost upwards of $700 and $75 as consequences of hitting some guy's truck. I'm just glad it's all over with at last and I don't have to fucking walk everywhere.

Shameless Plug #2

Finnish love metallists H.I.M. have created a new album, and what with their now being signed for global distribution by Sire Records, this album, Dark Light, will be their proper American debut. For more information, check out their website at www.heartagram.com and witness the awesomeness. Dark Light hits U.S. stores September 27. Below, you should see streaming video for their new single, "Wings of a Butterfly."

HIM - "Wings of a Butterfly" -


HIM's">http://www.myspace.com/heartagram">HIM's MySpace Page

Blah blah blah...

This used to be a double post of the post after it. I tried to delete it, but it just came up with a Google map of the United States. Bad webmasters! No biscuit!

Holy Shit NO!!! They rejected my plea for dough!

Well, I tried to get some Google AdSense ads on my blog here so that it might make me a buck or two. (I may be a communist, but I need to make some dough to survive in this fucking country.) Here's some choice words from my rejection letter:

"Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.

We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.

Issues:

- Inappropriate language"

What the fuck?

"Further detail:

Inappropriate language: We've found that your website contains content
that isn't in compliance with our program policies. We don't allow
websites with excessive profanity or potentially offensive content to
participate in Google AdSense. Please review our policies
[their URL] for a complete list
of site content not allowed on web pages."

Come on, guys, it's not like I'm a porno site or something!

Well, fuck that shit. If I don't have the freedom of speech to take money for selling out my supposedly excessively profane or potentially offensive blog to the shitgods of Corporate America, then what is this world coming to? I'm offering to be a consumer whore, damnit, and they won't let me!

Well, hell. Don't have time to get all the documentation I need to sell plasma, Google AdSense doesn't like my foul mouth, and I still need some green. Better start looking for a fucking job.

Good evening and welcome to Hell's Garbage Masher.

I'm your host, Archibald Marco Jacques Empuu Cheryl Fungarelli Blatherington-Schmidt XVIII.

[Sound of channel changing]

...but for time and decency's sake, I won't go into that here. So anyway, I saw this billboard on the side of the Interstate today advertizing some snazzy subdivision, and, among other things, it said "Affordable Golf Course Living." What does this mean? Is your home cheaper if you live on the golf course? "Say, Jones, where do you hang your hat?" "Oh me, I live in that shack next to the sand trap on Hole 17." "Hole 17, oh you lucky bastard. I'm stuck in a bathysphere at the bottom of the Hole 11 Water Hazard." "Well at least you don't have golf balls flying through your windows all the time, Smith. My wife got hit pretty bad in the head the other day." "Really? I've got to go through a Triathlon to get out of the house, Jones. Showing up at work covered with pond water and sweat, rea--"

[Sound of channel changing]

And now, the weather.

[TV clicks off]

Bloody idiots. I just have to look out the window to see that.

The Difference Between Crap and Shit

It amuses the hell out of me that the word crap is acceptable on radio and television while its synonym shit isn't. Apparently, the FCC sees some kind of difference between these two words that somehow casts crap in a more favorable light than shit. I actually see it the other way 'round. Crap sounds like a much bigger mess than shit. Shit sounds streamlined and precise, whereas crap sounds scattered and splattered. Shit is like a laser; crap is like a thermos full of nitroglycerin. Maybe that's just my fucked up opinion. You don't care. I feel compelled to apologize for wasting the last minute or so of your life.

Just so you know I'm still alive...

Here's a shameless plug.


In other news, I'm spending my summer installing hardwood and laminate floors as an unofficial laborer for my dad. I am also reading the textbook for snake and loco government so that I don't have to take the class. It's central Texas, hotter than Hell, asshole of the universe. Nothing much to say, really, that I would want to tell some anonymous Internet person. Don't expect me to update anytime soon; I never do.

A Ritzy Affair, Indeed

Everybody has or will have a Prom Night Story. This is mine.

On Saturday, April 24, 2004, I came home from the regional UIL science competition somewhat shaken. I was expecting to deal out major pwnage in the biology portion and do pretty well on the chemistry, tanking the physics. What really happened was a bit different. As expected, I tanked the physics, mainly because the physics program at Georgetown High School wasn’t worth a damn until the year after I graduated. The bio was an absolute shocker: I was trounced. Too many questions about endocrinology, which was one of my weaker areas at the time. I was in a three-way tie for second in the chem, though, so the day wasn’t entirely lost.

I came home shaken, not so much by the day’s battle as by what I was going to do that night. That’s right, as implied earlier, it was Prom Night. My own efforts to attempt to get a date could be described as flimsy at best (needless to say they failed; I never had much luck with the ladies in high school what with being handsome, intelligent, gentlemanly, and carless) and I had been too proud to try to get someone to set me up; nevertheless, I had in my possession a ticket that felt like a grain of dirt under a hard contact lens.

This was thanks to my Spanish teacher, who saw in me something I never did see and still can’t identify to this date. On Monday, she had cornered me during the period of time after the lecture and asked me what my plans for Saturday were, and I said that I would probably come home from Regionals and cry myself to sleep.

“What if you had a magic piece of paper that could get you in?” she asked in the manner of a fairy godmother.

“Magic paper... oh,” I said. “I can already get my ticket free on account of my fundraiser participation last year. It’s just that I can’t go stag to the prom, can I?”

She then proceeded to relate the tale of how in her senior year, her boyfriend had dumped her shortly before the prom and how she ended up going with a friend who later turned out to be a lesbian, concluding, “But at least I have a story. If you don’t go, you won’t have a story; you won’t be able to look back on it years later and laugh at how stupid it was.”

On my way out the door at the end of the class, she slipped me an envelope containing a ticket with my name on it.

Anyway, all week, I had been pondering the events of those five minutes or so. On my way home from Regionals, I had discussed the situation with my friend Ben, who had been set up. His opinion was that I should go stag.

At home, I explained the situation to my parents, whose recommendations I followed. A little before midnight, I was honored with the designation of Best Dressed according to a poll taken a few weeks in advance. I still have the stupid little resin brick to prove it.

I picked up the brick the following week. While I wasn’t receiving it, I was dancing to cheesy electronica with an assortment of college girls. The college guys in the Ruta Maya were too busy standing around getting rat-assed to give a rat’s ass.

Later early Sunday morning, my parents and I walked through the door of the Continental Club, where a blues/rockabilly group called the LeRoi Brothers was playing. As we were paying the cover, singer Toni Price was finishing a set with them. My folks went into the back of the club and left me up front where the band was playing. In retrospect, the band was mediocre, but compared to the DJ I had experienced earlier, they were quite good. At about 2:30, I was approached on the dance floor by none other than an appreciably inebriated Toni Price. Her speech moderately slurring, she asked me, “Are you Johnny Depp?”

At the time, this threw me for a bit of a loop, but I later recalled that in the previews for Secret Window, Depp had looked kind of like me.

“No,” I said, thinking, Oh my god, she is tanked.

“Good!” said Price, taking longer to pronounce the “G” than the “ood”. I often wonder what would have happened had I said that I was Depp. She asked me my name; I answered; she said, “I’m Toni.” Indicating the band, “They rock, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” I said.

At that time, this potentially awkward situation of a sleep-deprived high school senior being chatted up by a drunken blues singer (there’s a strange joke in that somewhere; I know there is) was cut short by the interruption of my even more sleep-deprived parents. I often wonder what would have happened had they not rescued me.

So, um... yeah. My Spanish teacher can now rest assured that I've got a story.

Expect another update on the next cold night in the private hell of my mind.

What do you want from me?

Oh, wait. There's nobody out there to want anything from me. No one reads this. I hardly ever update it myself.

Holy crap. This thing still exists.

So, anyway, yeah. I feel really free. It's as though I can type any old thing I want in here and get away with it because there's no chance in Hell that anyone I know will actually read this. Tell ya wot, if you ever get hella depressed, watch Pink Floyd The Wall. If you've seen it, surely you must agree. If you haven't, then your first viewing of this opera should be alone, wide awake, during the middle of the afternoon, and stone cold sober. If this viewing does not have you in tears by the time it's over, you'd better check your pulse. In the long run, though, it cheers you up because, unless you're one screwed-up mofo, it makes you realize that your life could very definitely be worse.

A Deeper Meaning?

What could it possibly mean that someone lame enough to care about grammar, spelling, capitalization, and puctuation has started a blog?

Nothing.

If you're going to try to find some kind of deeper meaning in this, you won't have much luck. I'm still not sure why I'm doing this. I'm not sure whether I should make this a nerdy diary blog, a pathetic little emo kid's blog, or a load of existential babble.