Might as well face it, you're addicted to addictive stuff that's addicting

Revenge is dish best served cold, apparently.














Not exactly what I had in mind. Though I am hungry.

Alright Noo Yawk, I tag you, you tag me, blood is shed weeks later or whenever the tag was I can't remember, someone calls the cops and soon the internets ends up on one of those Investigation: Discovery shows as a suspect spoken about in hushed tones by an informant hidden in the shade spewing forth a bad Peter Frampton outtake. I see how the game is played. Well, my corpse does.

The deceased is required to talk about five items that he was addicted to before he shuffled off this mortal coil, then tag five others. We're assuming his wife has run off to Europe with Randal's vast wealth, so we can only guess at his vices.

"Do corpses always talk in the third person?"

The corpse is glad you asked.

"...."

Five addictions:

1. Music. The most interstellar brobdingnagian of duhs. If given the choice of forsaking their hearing or their sight, most would likely retain the latter because of its everyday usefulness, especially when it comes to safety issues such as pushing little old ladies out of the way to cross the street and going hunting with Dick Cheney. I, on the other hand, would have to think about it. Music, whether alternately intricate and propulsive chamber, depressive and downbeat neo-folkery, soaring symphonic epics or strings of skullcrushing divebomb riffs forged in Tartarus, is worse than crack. I have never had crack, but I am listening to music right now.

2. Writing. I'm being vaguely misleading here because there are days where I don't physically write, which is apparently some kind of art-collar crime punishable by 3-5 years of reading books on deconstructionist theory, but I'm almost always mentally writing, at least in a non-bloggy sense, especially while at work drinking unhealthy amounts of coffee and avoiding helping others to the best of my ability which is also what I am doing right now because the monolith of interruption is lethal to flights of fancy you lazy and annoying patrons.

And before you say anything, brain, my kind of lazy is charming.

3. Coffee. Morning fuel of the gods and of slacker library employees.

4. Tea. Evening fuel of the gods and slacker fathers and husbands.

5. Stroking the ego.

"I thought this was a family-friendly blog."

Of course it is, Mr. Jump-To-Conclusions, but you know my wife hates me, so it's not like I can list 'show me your id, and I'll show you mine.'

"You like onion rings."

But I don't have them every day like I do the others which is the subject of an entirely different rant because it's my Office of the Pretzeldent-given right to kill Ay-Rabs, kiss Is-reel's ass, wag a finger at the Reds and banana republics not named the United States, all your money are belong to us, and stuff my face with onion rings.

"Complaining?"

Such as this morning. Look, fellow public transportationistas, have your fucking fare in the form of cash or a card ready when you step on the fucking bus because many drivers will wait until you are seated before moving the fucking thing so while you're playing pocket pool and I'm wishing I could stick my headphones directly against your eardrums and turn it up to eleven thereby shattering them to pieces and leaving you in a bloody, writhing agony to ooze down the steps onto the curb, that coffee ain't getting brewed because I'm the first fucking person at work, you fuck. And don't come on the bus with a wallet full of tens and twenties asking anyone and everyone for change then get all pissy when no one has any because the economy sucks, you stupid fuck.

Apparently, someone else from that state tagged me -- is this combined assault because I hate The Fucking Yankees? -- but since I'm a nice guy, I'm only tagging zero, because I can't remember who has or hasn't done this. Here's your chance to be like a bank and steal something without fear of reprisal.