This reminds me of the time my mom found a pack of circular brass screens and thought it was for a school project. She gave them back to me.
*UPDATE: that looks like ditch weed anyway. He probably kept the good stuff somewhere safe and dry.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Next to the Bong
This reminds me of the time my mom found a pack of circular brass screens and thought it was for a school project. She gave them back to me.
*UPDATE: that looks like ditch weed anyway. He probably kept the good stuff somewhere safe and dry.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Things I Do While Wasted
I don’t drink much. When I do, I find that I embarrass myself a great deal. Not because I’m sloppy and fall down and crash into things and wake up with bruises and have no idea from where they came (that happens, but that’s not why I’m embarrassed)--I get honest. Brutally honest. If I ever write a book it should be called Brutal Honesty. While wasted, I start telling people secrets and other things that no one should know about me. Like the time that I told this kid Chuck that I stole $100 from him way back in the day during a weed for money exchange (“drug deal” sounds so… illegal). Needless to say, he cared. And I now owe him $100 (I’m still in Chuck debt). I also tell people about their faults and flaws and why I don’t like them or do. Like the time I told Johnny, “I used to not like you, but then I decided that you can’t really help being a pompous asshole, so you’re okay in my book.” Or that I’m in love with them. That doesn’t happen so much, because I’m not in love with a whole lot of people.
What really scares me is when I don’t remember what I said nor did, which, thankfully, doesn’t happen often. I wake up on a couch with no recollection of the night after 2 a.m. It’s noon, so I take it I’ve been sleeping for a while. Everyone is in the living room watching football with my drunk-ass laid out on the couch. GREAT! Have I been drooling excessively? Snoring? Both? Did I say anything to hurt my friend’s feelings? Did I confess my love of Frankie Avalon? Most of the time, people say I keep my composure, but I have my doubts. Then the next day I send a text to a friend that’s really nonchalant, like, “What are you doing for the game tonight?” If I don’t receive a response within an hour, I start to worry. “Shit, I probably said something really, really stupid or mean or both.” Then I send another message that says something like, “I guess you’re really mad at me because I said something really stupid or mean or both. Please accept my apology. I’m a drunk-ass.” Then they call and ask what the fuck I’m talking about, and I just wave it off and say, “Never mind.”
Now that’s embarrassing. I swear the next day that I’ll never drink again, but that thought is out the window next Friday.
What really scares me is when I don’t remember what I said nor did, which, thankfully, doesn’t happen often. I wake up on a couch with no recollection of the night after 2 a.m. It’s noon, so I take it I’ve been sleeping for a while. Everyone is in the living room watching football with my drunk-ass laid out on the couch. GREAT! Have I been drooling excessively? Snoring? Both? Did I say anything to hurt my friend’s feelings? Did I confess my love of Frankie Avalon? Most of the time, people say I keep my composure, but I have my doubts. Then the next day I send a text to a friend that’s really nonchalant, like, “What are you doing for the game tonight?” If I don’t receive a response within an hour, I start to worry. “Shit, I probably said something really, really stupid or mean or both.” Then I send another message that says something like, “I guess you’re really mad at me because I said something really stupid or mean or both. Please accept my apology. I’m a drunk-ass.” Then they call and ask what the fuck I’m talking about, and I just wave it off and say, “Never mind.”
Now that’s embarrassing. I swear the next day that I’ll never drink again, but that thought is out the window next Friday.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Speaking of Trannies...
I found something quite disturbing the other day. I have a laptop that I use for personal use and I had set up a user account for my little sister when we lived together. I decided to change it from "Rachel" to "Everyone Else" because my computer gets a lot of use by my roommates. I decided to check out her user account and delete things that didn't need to be on there. I logged onto it, and found multiple jpg files on the desktop. I figured they were nothing, but I decided to check them out. The first one I clicked on was this:
ummm..... o...kaaaaay.
Now, my sister is not a lesbian... nor a gay man. but this was just bizarre. I was even more curious. I clicked on the next image:
This is getting ridiculous! Why the hell does she have these on the computer desktop?! I'm not sure who this is, and whether she actually knew this person, or if she just found these on google images and... well, I don't know, wanted a cool desktop picture?? The next one is a little more disturbing than the others:
I couldn't help but think, "Whose bed is that?! And... umm... WHAT THE FUCK???! Is he supposed to look like an seductive action hero or something?"
and finally, hooter's girl:
put that in your pipe and smoke it.
ummm..... o...kaaaaay.
Now, my sister is not a lesbian... nor a gay man. but this was just bizarre. I was even more curious. I clicked on the next image:
This is getting ridiculous! Why the hell does she have these on the computer desktop?! I'm not sure who this is, and whether she actually knew this person, or if she just found these on google images and... well, I don't know, wanted a cool desktop picture?? The next one is a little more disturbing than the others:
I couldn't help but think, "Whose bed is that?! And... umm... WHAT THE FUCK???! Is he supposed to look like an seductive action hero or something?"
and finally, hooter's girl:
put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Transvestites and Trip Wires
After work yesterday, I took the train home, and I was standing in one of the aisles. All of the sudden I got a bump on the shoulder and heard a voice say, “Excuse me.”
I moved and turned to look at (what I thought was a) her, but it was a Latin transvestite! Yay!! I’ve always been a fan of trannies (or is it “trannys”?), but this one truly took the cake. She was wearing gray sweatpants, the kind that gather at the ankles, and a flannel button-down shirt that she had tied up all Daisy Duke style. She also had dark brown lip liner and no lipstick (ew). She was obviously a crack addict and/or prostitute. She walked by me, and her walk is the point of this entry. She marched down to the other end of the train like a well-trained Clydesdale. Like, really high-stepping. She had her belly pushed out waaay in front of her with her shoulders waaaay back and each step, she lifted her knees up to almost a 90 degree angle. Do men really see women walking like that? I mean, was she stepping over multiple invisible trip wires? I couldn’t help but giggle at the scene, as did everyone else around.
One guy turned to me and said, “This ain’t California!”
It sure ain’t.
I moved and turned to look at (what I thought was a) her, but it was a Latin transvestite! Yay!! I’ve always been a fan of trannies (or is it “trannys”?), but this one truly took the cake. She was wearing gray sweatpants, the kind that gather at the ankles, and a flannel button-down shirt that she had tied up all Daisy Duke style. She also had dark brown lip liner and no lipstick (ew). She was obviously a crack addict and/or prostitute. She walked by me, and her walk is the point of this entry. She marched down to the other end of the train like a well-trained Clydesdale. Like, really high-stepping. She had her belly pushed out waaay in front of her with her shoulders waaaay back and each step, she lifted her knees up to almost a 90 degree angle. Do men really see women walking like that? I mean, was she stepping over multiple invisible trip wires? I couldn’t help but giggle at the scene, as did everyone else around.
One guy turned to me and said, “This ain’t California!”
It sure ain’t.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Word.
My favorite word is "word." This has been so for a very long time. I use the word "word" very often. "Word" is a great word. It works on so many levels.
To be in agreement with a statement:
"Those shoes are hideous."
"Word."
To answer “yes” to a question:
"Are familiar with the quadratic equation?"
"Word."
To express delight:
"My parents died, but they left me a buttload of cash!"
"Word!"
To be used as a question after a statement, in the place of "Really?":
"I just cured cancer!"
"Word?"
The common meaning:
"A word is a unit of language that carries meaning and consists of one or more morphemes which are linked more or less tightly together, and has a phonetic value."
And, finally, the Microsoft word processing program, Word:
"Dude, Word sucks."
"Word."
WORD.
To be in agreement with a statement:
"Those shoes are hideous."
"Word."
To answer “yes” to a question:
"Are familiar with the quadratic equation?"
"Word."
To express delight:
"My parents died, but they left me a buttload of cash!"
"Word!"
To be used as a question after a statement, in the place of "Really?":
"I just cured cancer!"
"Word?"
The common meaning:
"A word is a unit of language that carries meaning and consists of one or more morphemes which are linked more or less tightly together, and has a phonetic value."
And, finally, the Microsoft word processing program, Word:
"Dude, Word sucks."
"Word."
WORD.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
To My Internet Stalker (not my real life stalker… you are creepy):
Please don’t ever stop stalking me. I rather enjoy the mysterious conversations we have. I love that you know Latin abbreviations (e.g.: i.e.). It’s really kind of flattering that I have a stalker. Makes me feel loved. I’ve made a list of my perfect guy, and (in my head) you fit into each category. Here’s the list:
he’s funny; he’s smart (…er than me); he speaks English and uses it well; he loves corny movies; he is not an alcoholic or drug addict (pot head acceptable); he wears sandals; he loves the outdoors; he is an auto mechanic (this is so I can own a classic muscle car without having to worry about costly repairs, he could also just be rich); he’s creative and loves art; he’s attractive, but not too attractive; he’s at least 6’; he’s not jealous of my guy friends; he wants to have children one day; he is not married; he’s not... really hairy; he thinks electronic music is the dopest shit ever; he’s geeky; he’s at least a little Irish; his last name goes with “Claire”; he uses words like “esotericism”; he’s a collector of esoterica; and he loves his mother.
If this is not you, lie to me.
I do, however, think that our stalker/stalkee relationship is probably unhealthy.
Thinking fondly of you and waiting patiently for your next stalker comment,
Claire
he’s funny; he’s smart (…er than me); he speaks English and uses it well; he loves corny movies; he is not an alcoholic or drug addict (pot head acceptable); he wears sandals; he loves the outdoors; he is an auto mechanic (this is so I can own a classic muscle car without having to worry about costly repairs, he could also just be rich); he’s creative and loves art; he’s attractive, but not too attractive; he’s at least 6’; he’s not jealous of my guy friends; he wants to have children one day; he is not married; he’s not... really hairy; he thinks electronic music is the dopest shit ever; he’s geeky; he’s at least a little Irish; his last name goes with “Claire”; he uses words like “esotericism”; he’s a collector of esoterica; and he loves his mother.
If this is not you, lie to me.
I do, however, think that our stalker/stalkee relationship is probably unhealthy.
Thinking fondly of you and waiting patiently for your next stalker comment,
Claire
I Live in a Fucking Hostel
My roommates (the lease holders) just decided to let 2 more people move into our house (sort of). They live in a school bus in the driveway. I couldn't make this shit up. So now, we're up to 9 humans: Adrienne, Josh, Chris, Jessica, Kylie, Ernie, the other Chris, Desiree and me; and 6 pets: 4 cats, 1 bunny rabbit, 1 dog... and a partridge in a pear tree. The agreement is the 2 noobs don't have to pay rent, they just help out with utilities. It doesn't make me angry or sad or happy to have a bazillion roommates, I'm kind of indifferent, but it's never lonely at the house, that's for sure.
And my rent is $150/mo.
if you need a place in Portland, I think there's still some room on the roof and in the backyard.
And my rent is $150/mo.
if you need a place in Portland, I think there's still some room on the roof and in the backyard.
Monday, October 13, 2008
I'm a Bathroom Zombie
I use the restroom at work a lot. I've just returned from it, and I’ve made a discovery that I had to share. You see, after using the toilet, I go to the sink and wash my hands. I typically use the sink that is the furthest away from the paper towel dispenser. Reason: none. After washing my hands, they are drippy and wet (for obvious reasons), so I hold my arms out stretched out in front of me to avoid water dripping on my clothing and shoes, walk to the dispenser, and dry. It dawned on me looking in the mirror while doing this that I totally look like a zombie. After making this realization, I said, “Brains” in that all-too-familiar zombie monotone. Luckily my boss didn’t walk in.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Why Plaid Pantry is pronounced PLAYED Pantry
Ryan and Rowdy (some "dready" friends from Santa Cruz) were in town. I had been gladly taxiing them around town, and we stopped at Plaid Pantry for beer and cigarettes. Plaid Pantry is like 7-11. A convenience store, that doesn't sell gas. We went inside and picked a sixer of PBR (we po') and proceeded to the cashier. She was a young girl, maybe early 20s, kinda goth-y (I'm not normally the kind of person that puts stereotypes on people, but she was, in fact, kinda goth-y) and obviously in a bad mood. She asked for ID, which Ryan quickly obliged and then the cashier said, "I need hers, too." and pointed at Rowdy.
Now, Rowdy isn't the type of person to carry around her identification for reasons I cannot divulge, and she put up quite a fight, claiming that the cashier was being discriminatory to them because of the way they looked. Rowdy hadn't touched the beer and she was not paying for it, so why do they need her ID? The cashier explained that anyone accompanying someone else purchasing alcoholic beverages must prove that they are also over 21.
Ryan was pissed. He and Rowdy exited the Plaid Pantry and got halfway to the car when Ryan doubled back and went back in. "I forgot to get cigarettes" he said to the cashier. She looked around, as if to check if anyone was looking, and said, "I'm technically not supposed to sell these to you because she didn't have her ID, but I will this time."
He looked shocked. "So... you can break one rule, but not another?! Sell me the beer then!!" Ryan shouted, making a scene. The cashier asked Ryan to leave, without selling him anything, and he did, but not before announcing to the world, "This is the PLAYED Pantry!"
To this day, we still call it "Played Pantry"... or just "Played" for short.
Now, Rowdy isn't the type of person to carry around her identification for reasons I cannot divulge, and she put up quite a fight, claiming that the cashier was being discriminatory to them because of the way they looked. Rowdy hadn't touched the beer and she was not paying for it, so why do they need her ID? The cashier explained that anyone accompanying someone else purchasing alcoholic beverages must prove that they are also over 21.
Ryan was pissed. He and Rowdy exited the Plaid Pantry and got halfway to the car when Ryan doubled back and went back in. "I forgot to get cigarettes" he said to the cashier. She looked around, as if to check if anyone was looking, and said, "I'm technically not supposed to sell these to you because she didn't have her ID, but I will this time."
He looked shocked. "So... you can break one rule, but not another?! Sell me the beer then!!" Ryan shouted, making a scene. The cashier asked Ryan to leave, without selling him anything, and he did, but not before announcing to the world, "This is the PLAYED Pantry!"
To this day, we still call it "Played Pantry"... or just "Played" for short.
I judge homeless people... even when they're not homeless
Taken from scribblings in my notebook last week:
The clothes dryer at home is really screwy right now… it doesn’t get hot, so clothes generally take about 3 days to dry. I need clean clothes before then, so I’ve taken all my dirty clothes (which basically consists of ALL my clothes) to the laundromat up the street. I had a huge laundry basket full and a large trash bag full. Just getting them in the door was a task. I love it how people will stare at you struggling when you obviously need an extra hand, and continue to stare like you’re disrupting them or something. It really helps.
The only guy in the place is an elderly gentleman who looks homeless. He’s balding and has a patchy beard and dirty-looking clothes on. I suppose it could just be laundry day for him and he is, indeed, not homeless, but whatever, we’ll just assume he was and is homeless.
I looked fantastic. I had on a once-red now ruined-with-blue-dye zip-up sweatshirt, old jeans that are torn near the crotch and turquoise crocs. It. Was. Fabulous. I am a fashion felon.
I start sorting through my laundry: whites, blacks and colors. I put the detergent in the washer and then throw in a white wash. I start rummaging through my wallet and discover that I only have 4 one-dollar bills and a twenty. The washer is $2 to start. I easily have about 4 loads for the washers. I frantically look around the small room for a change machine, but, OF COURSE!, it only accepts one-dollar bills. The homeless guy noticed that I did not posses the correct increments of change, but said nothing… continued to pretend to read his Forbes Magazine. “I could ask the homeless guy for some money” I thought… wait a minute, did I just say that?! That makes absolutely no sense. But I tried it anyway: “You wouldn’t happen to have change for a twenty, would you?” He replied, “No. Sorry.” “Who has change for a twenty, right?!” I exclaimed. He said matter-of-factly, “Maybe last year”, a reference to our horrible economy that people blame for everything. I snorted a small chuckle and exiting the building.
When I turned around, I read the large sign above the rows of washers:
“Absolutely no greasy clothes washed in machines.
Please do not leave clothes in washers or dryers unattended.”
“Fuck.” I thought. “I hope I didn’t put my white clothes in a greasy washer. Sick” I went back and forth in my head about the situation. I could empty out the washer and put ALL my clothes back in the car and drive to Plaid Pantry for change. I could leave everything and get change. I could just say fuck it, and drive home and never do laundry again. Woe is me! I finally decided that mulling it over was taking forever and the homeless guy was beginning to scare me. I bravely left all my clothes in the laundromat and calmly got into the car and started the engine.
The whole time I spent in the car and I was imagining the homeless guy saying, "Jackpot!! What a moron! She left her expensive clothes here! With me: THE HOMELESS GUY! Muhahahahahaha! Idiot."
I decided speed was the only way to thwart the homeless guy's plans to steal my clothes and sell them for crack (did I mention he's a crackhead, too? Becuase he is... in my head). I got to the conveinence store in about 2 seconds flat and ran (literally ran) into the store and bought a pack of smokes and asked for the $16 change to be all ones... I figured, who knows how much this is going to cost? Better get as many ones as possible. The cashier looked at me weird and I looked at him weird, and he gave me the change. I walked back to the car (I forgot I was in a hurry) and returned to the laundromat to find that my clothes were completely untouched and sitting in the exact same place they were before. I washed my laundry and returned home with a mountain of clean clothes. My roommate asked, "How your experience with the laundromat go?"
I replied, "Fine."
The clothes dryer at home is really screwy right now… it doesn’t get hot, so clothes generally take about 3 days to dry. I need clean clothes before then, so I’ve taken all my dirty clothes (which basically consists of ALL my clothes) to the laundromat up the street. I had a huge laundry basket full and a large trash bag full. Just getting them in the door was a task. I love it how people will stare at you struggling when you obviously need an extra hand, and continue to stare like you’re disrupting them or something. It really helps.
The only guy in the place is an elderly gentleman who looks homeless. He’s balding and has a patchy beard and dirty-looking clothes on. I suppose it could just be laundry day for him and he is, indeed, not homeless, but whatever, we’ll just assume he was and is homeless.
I looked fantastic. I had on a once-red now ruined-with-blue-dye zip-up sweatshirt, old jeans that are torn near the crotch and turquoise crocs. It. Was. Fabulous. I am a fashion felon.
I start sorting through my laundry: whites, blacks and colors. I put the detergent in the washer and then throw in a white wash. I start rummaging through my wallet and discover that I only have 4 one-dollar bills and a twenty. The washer is $2 to start. I easily have about 4 loads for the washers. I frantically look around the small room for a change machine, but, OF COURSE!, it only accepts one-dollar bills. The homeless guy noticed that I did not posses the correct increments of change, but said nothing… continued to pretend to read his Forbes Magazine. “I could ask the homeless guy for some money” I thought… wait a minute, did I just say that?! That makes absolutely no sense. But I tried it anyway: “You wouldn’t happen to have change for a twenty, would you?” He replied, “No. Sorry.” “Who has change for a twenty, right?!” I exclaimed. He said matter-of-factly, “Maybe last year”, a reference to our horrible economy that people blame for everything. I snorted a small chuckle and exiting the building.
When I turned around, I read the large sign above the rows of washers:
“Absolutely no greasy clothes washed in machines.
Please do not leave clothes in washers or dryers unattended.”
“Fuck.” I thought. “I hope I didn’t put my white clothes in a greasy washer. Sick” I went back and forth in my head about the situation. I could empty out the washer and put ALL my clothes back in the car and drive to Plaid Pantry for change. I could leave everything and get change. I could just say fuck it, and drive home and never do laundry again. Woe is me! I finally decided that mulling it over was taking forever and the homeless guy was beginning to scare me. I bravely left all my clothes in the laundromat and calmly got into the car and started the engine.
The whole time I spent in the car and I was imagining the homeless guy saying, "Jackpot!! What a moron! She left her expensive clothes here! With me: THE HOMELESS GUY! Muhahahahahaha! Idiot."
I decided speed was the only way to thwart the homeless guy's plans to steal my clothes and sell them for crack (did I mention he's a crackhead, too? Becuase he is... in my head). I got to the conveinence store in about 2 seconds flat and ran (literally ran) into the store and bought a pack of smokes and asked for the $16 change to be all ones... I figured, who knows how much this is going to cost? Better get as many ones as possible. The cashier looked at me weird and I looked at him weird, and he gave me the change. I walked back to the car (I forgot I was in a hurry) and returned to the laundromat to find that my clothes were completely untouched and sitting in the exact same place they were before. I washed my laundry and returned home with a mountain of clean clothes. My roommate asked, "How your experience with the laundromat go?"
I replied, "Fine."
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Text messages that ramble on and on and on and...
I just got the longest text message I've ever received. It's from my boy-toy friend Jay, who's a little weird (as you'll gather). This text message has not been altered in any way, it came to me in several separate texts:
"Okay, probably I shouldn't be taking away from my research and your trials and tribulations to clutter your inbox with trivia, but the new furniture ...
is installed, and I'll of course want your opinion ~ how much time can you free up this P.M.? (Always assuming, that is, that you aren't yet completely ...
fed up with my awkwardness and inanity ~ not to say incompetence and imbecility ~ really, how anyone of your singular talents puts up with me for more ...
than fifteen minutes at a stretch is more than I can fathom ~ possibly I should take one of those fabled "mental health days" I keep hearing so much abo ...
ut and see if I can't figure out how best to amend my waywardness... no rest for the wicked, though, or so 'tis said, and precious little for yours truly.)"
I responded:
"New furniture? What new furniture?"
"Okay, probably I shouldn't be taking away from my research and your trials and tribulations to clutter your inbox with trivia, but the new furniture ...
is installed, and I'll of course want your opinion ~ how much time can you free up this P.M.? (Always assuming, that is, that you aren't yet completely ...
fed up with my awkwardness and inanity ~ not to say incompetence and imbecility ~ really, how anyone of your singular talents puts up with me for more ...
than fifteen minutes at a stretch is more than I can fathom ~ possibly I should take one of those fabled "mental health days" I keep hearing so much abo ...
ut and see if I can't figure out how best to amend my waywardness... no rest for the wicked, though, or so 'tis said, and precious little for yours truly.)"
I responded:
"New furniture? What new furniture?"
Monday, October 6, 2008
Crispin Glover, you toy with my brain
As some know, I'm a die-hard Back to the Future fan (I can recite most of the movie's dialogue verbatim), and I had no idea that George McFly’s character is played by someone other than Crispin Glover in both sequels. It seems that some dude named Jeffrey Weissman played George in the sequels while using some scenes from the first movie of Crispin Glover. I guess Glover sued, but whatever… that’s crazy that I had no idea! It’s like finding out that there’s no Santa Claus!* Also something I found interesting about the movie: Michael J. Fox was 3 years older than Crispin Glover while filming—the dad younger than the son!
*To readers under 10: Just kidding, there is a Santa Claus. He’s REAL. Trust me. To readers over 10, who still believe in Santa Claus: grow up.
UPDATE: I just found out there was also an animated series in the 90s. Here’s the intro:
Weird!
*To readers under 10: Just kidding, there is a Santa Claus. He’s REAL. Trust me. To readers over 10, who still believe in Santa Claus: grow up.
UPDATE: I just found out there was also an animated series in the 90s. Here’s the intro:
Weird!
Commence Blogging
I've discovered that writing in a notebook on the bus and train aches my little digits and is very hard to read when completed. It also takes longer to write than type. So, while I will continue to jot little thoughts into my notebook on the bus and train everyday (pending inspiration), I've created this blog to do the same. So here's the intro:
Hi. My name is Claire Quin. For those of you who know me... hi. How ya doin'? You bastards better tell your friends that I'm funny and smart and to visit my blog. For those of you who don't know me... what's up? I hope be become friends. By the way, you rock.
Tell your people about this! Even if you're the only reader (which you probably are), entice people to visit and read the tales and adventures of my thrilling life! Be prepared to be jolted into fear when I tell the tales of my ailing eyeball and feel heartfelt contemptment when I talk about arguing with my mother in Detroit for 3 hours. Also, did you know that contemptment is not a word? It's not, I just made it up. It sounds like a real word doesn't it? Be warned that I make up words all the time and sometimes they sound like real words and other times, well... they don't. I add "lisious" to the end of lots of words. It's wordlisious.
I think I'm getting a little off-base here. The reason we're here today is because I am one of the many people of this world who have a lot of thoughts, but they don't particularly come in order. It's often random thoughts that enter our heads... and as the great Lucas from Empire Records once said, "Who knows where thoughts come from? They just appear!" My point is he had a point. While this blog will be very random and non-cohesive, I plan to one day make it into a cohesive, non-random book (or novel, or greeting card, or whatever).
And with that, I say, commence blogging. Stay tuned for more.
Hi. My name is Claire Quin. For those of you who know me... hi. How ya doin'? You bastards better tell your friends that I'm funny and smart and to visit my blog. For those of you who don't know me... what's up? I hope be become friends. By the way, you rock.
Tell your people about this! Even if you're the only reader (which you probably are), entice people to visit and read the tales and adventures of my thrilling life! Be prepared to be jolted into fear when I tell the tales of my ailing eyeball and feel heartfelt contemptment when I talk about arguing with my mother in Detroit for 3 hours. Also, did you know that contemptment is not a word? It's not, I just made it up. It sounds like a real word doesn't it? Be warned that I make up words all the time and sometimes they sound like real words and other times, well... they don't. I add "lisious" to the end of lots of words. It's wordlisious.
I think I'm getting a little off-base here. The reason we're here today is because I am one of the many people of this world who have a lot of thoughts, but they don't particularly come in order. It's often random thoughts that enter our heads... and as the great Lucas from Empire Records once said, "Who knows where thoughts come from? They just appear!" My point is he had a point. While this blog will be very random and non-cohesive, I plan to one day make it into a cohesive, non-random book (or novel, or greeting card, or whatever).
And with that, I say, commence blogging. Stay tuned for more.
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