The cat comes back.
Disclaimer: I am not The Cat.
I saw Tilly and The Wall the other night. It was good shit. Seriously--Tap Dancing as a replacement for Drums. I'm okay with that. I had Point IPA and a PBR Tall Boy and another Point IPA and after a trip to Wolski's I did not rush home to blog about the night.
I'm sorry.
I don't use my computer at home--that boat is pretty much for emergency uses (read:porn and kittens) only. It's not that I don't like to use it; I'm just not up with the downtime nearly as much and, well, let's face it: It's on the floor. The floor is uncomfortable and occasionally little things crawl across my feet (like Mice or, occasionally, the landlord) and I am strangely not comforted.
Lately it seems more or less as if MySpace used to be this little kitten... Not that bright, not really much going on there--but I'll be damned if you could pry your eyes off of it. Sure, it might be the 14-year old webcam girls. Because, let's face it. Training Bra's? Hot. But after so long it started to age and piss all over your nice things, and then there was this burlap sack and grandma telling you this uncomfortable story about that rogue stranger during the dust bowl who swept her off her 15-year old feet in a mad dash of romance and ballroom dancing and--well, yes, some statutory rape--and suddenly she was blessed with not your parents but, hey, Uncle Larry's good too and I don't know, maybe it was just because we were so young, just a couple of dimestore kids with nickles in our pockets and wooden sixpence pieces in our dollar penny-loafers, but still the automobiles drove by so so fast and the skyscrapers rose up so so tall and before you knew it, before anyone knew really, the world was changing and growing up and these are the days, our friends will be--
Okay; We drowned the damn cat. Are you happy? The cat is MySpace. MySpace was the cat. And yeah, sure, maybe it came up for air once or twice, but it really was nothing the baseball bat couldn't handle.
So, meanwhile, for those of you who would still like to follow my antics: _________shit. It turns out I've got nothing. If they would unblock MySpace at work, it could be a different story. That doesn't mean I don't have places to do it. I've got The FaceBook. I've got the thingsweshout.blogspot.com. Hell--I even have www.howwearecurious.com and the stillborn www.deathbynerf.com. I just don't do shit with them.
Again: my bad. I will have a new apartment in a months time or so, and hopefully a new desk will be soon to follow. We'll see what's what at that juncture. But, until then--
Courage.
I saw Tilly and The Wall the other night. It was good shit. Seriously--Tap Dancing as a replacement for Drums. I'm okay with that. I had Point IPA and a PBR Tall Boy and another Point IPA and after a trip to Wolski's I did not rush home to blog about the night.
I'm sorry.
I don't use my computer at home--that boat is pretty much for emergency uses (read:porn and kittens) only. It's not that I don't like to use it; I'm just not up with the downtime nearly as much and, well, let's face it: It's on the floor. The floor is uncomfortable and occasionally little things crawl across my feet (like Mice or, occasionally, the landlord) and I am strangely not comforted.
Lately it seems more or less as if MySpace used to be this little kitten... Not that bright, not really much going on there--but I'll be damned if you could pry your eyes off of it. Sure, it might be the 14-year old webcam girls. Because, let's face it. Training Bra's? Hot. But after so long it started to age and piss all over your nice things, and then there was this burlap sack and grandma telling you this uncomfortable story about that rogue stranger during the dust bowl who swept her off her 15-year old feet in a mad dash of romance and ballroom dancing and--well, yes, some statutory rape--and suddenly she was blessed with not your parents but, hey, Uncle Larry's good too and I don't know, maybe it was just because we were so young, just a couple of dimestore kids with nickles in our pockets and wooden sixpence pieces in our dollar penny-loafers, but still the automobiles drove by so so fast and the skyscrapers rose up so so tall and before you knew it, before anyone knew really, the world was changing and growing up and these are the days, our friends will be--
Okay; We drowned the damn cat. Are you happy? The cat is MySpace. MySpace was the cat. And yeah, sure, maybe it came up for air once or twice, but it really was nothing the baseball bat couldn't handle.
So, meanwhile, for those of you who would still like to follow my antics: _________shit. It turns out I've got nothing. If they would unblock MySpace at work, it could be a different story. That doesn't mean I don't have places to do it. I've got The FaceBook. I've got the thingsweshout.blogspot.com. Hell--I even have www.howwearecurious.com and the stillborn www.deathbynerf.com. I just don't do shit with them.
Again: my bad. I will have a new apartment in a months time or so, and hopefully a new desk will be soon to follow. We'll see what's what at that juncture. But, until then--
Courage.
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