Today is my last day of "Don't Drink & Drive" classes!

So, wait a minute, I'm supposed to put something up everyday?!

Nobody told me this in the tutorial.

I haven't been up to too much...clipped my toenails & shaved my balls...the usual maintenance stuff. Watched a couple of movies on DVD (that exciting new medium!), namely Hoax w/ Richard Gere and the Filth and the Fury w/ the Sex Pistols. I seem to recall having a first edition of F is for Fake somewhere in my collection...picked it up outside Lawrence, Kansas and the shop owner was a patient of Dr. Harvey who, as we all know, was the conservator of Einstein's Brain. He kept it in a jar under his kitchen sink! I'm not kidding about this. He'd moved a couple of years previous to my attempting to hunt him down and the erstwhile bookseller lady couldn't tell me his exact address; otherwise I'd be writing about how cool it was to touch Einstein's Brain right about now.

It's Too Damn Hot!

Cover me in butter and call Me a Lobster!

This piss poor excuse for a house is only shielding me in the vaguest of ways from that ball of fire in the sky; I think it may be affecting my mental processes. Not half an hour ago, I found myself stealing art supplies from the neighbors garbage...admittedly, it was a good score, however, I blame it on the Heat.

I found four "Labels" in a strong font with foamcore backing. They read, "ART GALLERY", "HOMELESS SHELTER", "GALLANT MALE ROOM" & "HOARDER'S MIND". I've proceeded to place them about the house in appropriate places.

As always, I take my amusements where I can find them.

-Beginnings-

Okay, okay, I might as well do it. Start a Blog, that is. Until this moment I was one of the three-hundred & seventy-eight people who didn't have a burning need to publish my drivel and genius for the world to see.

All that's behind me now. Welcome to Blog-topia, you sorry son-of-a-bitch; welcome to the ignorance of a million eyeballs and the putative adoration of basement dwellers & twelve year-old boys. May Cam-whores & Internet Tough guys follow your witticisms unto the final hour when your cracked and bleeding fingers shatter 'neath the force of your opinions.

It's at Miss Higdons' feet I lay the corpse of my anonymity; doubtlessly to be consumed by anthropomorphized maggots drunk on the bile of my soul.