Now that yours antisocial has met a local blogger other than the Duchess who doesn't exactly count being a fellow inmate at the Towering Slab, interwebs greetings, scourge of dandelions, I feel all bright young thingy. Here's where Jake would say ewww, but thankfully Space Casino scoffing is more universal than I previously dreamed of. Sometimes I love you, stupid burg.
On everything, I've nothing to say. On some things, everything.
See, just like Joey Barton* Byron, minus the expensive threads, faraway sightseeing, freak personal issues & twitter poetick skille duh. En plus, that should totally be on a bumper sticker, ten bucks a pack, no COD or personal checks, put it right next to your Frogger 2012 or I brake for eukaryotes.
*dude, your drunken gifting of Fergie Time to City cost me first place thanks to Diego's fucking s-i-l, you fucking fuck go eat a gangrenous corpse
Look over the horizon, man, chuck city's closer every day, but till then, fun with puritans! 'tis exactly like a trip to Chuck E. Cheese only with grease & tabletop Space Invaders [ed. note: always wanted one of those, hint, hint] replaced by the über-straitlaced laced with hallucinatory ergotism.
The great dilemma of our time, & by ours I mean mine, & by time I mean get sleeping, stupid, 'twas solved long ago, satisfaction or no moot like a slack of Anglo-Saxons, & this is a library to boot oooh meta, so shhhh.
Keep waiting for that stanza to close itself. How does one keep mushroom clouds handy? Perhaps that's the great. Hey, for Mordenkainen's Disjunction, I'd settle.
This semester's scheduling, as convoluted as the reasoning behind the Clowns drafting Chris Weinke, Jr. as the next last Winner of the Future, has kept yours truly out of the Towering Slab on Tuesdays, & though the ruby of an extra St. Drogo skull session this week has me giddy as strychnine in the bloodstream of a mortal enemy, & because I plan on spending the rest of the day conjuring the most bestest Wotan installment ever since everyone's favorite troo kvltist tiptoed through the electrons probably my most bestest post ever thus spake volumes, & because I fear a toxic avenging underground revenge scenario from a certain hazmat master, here, at last, is some tuneage.
Less than a week till the Space Casino, feel the taser sunlight on your face!
When Robert Schumann left his native Zwickau at the age of eighteen to study law in Leipzig, he still didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do with his life, so says this. Some of us are considerably older and still don't exactly know. Whilst I comb through dust bunnies, dog-eared pages, & freezer-burned effluvia pretending to figure such a thing out, here are some pictures sans humans.
