2018

It's 2018.

I'm still alive.

Carry on.

What do you know - it's 2009

That's right - it's 2009, and here I am, true to my word.

I'm going to be starting a new blog on Friday, called Discard the Lard.

This one's for realz.

I'm Baa-aack...

Thought you'd heard the last of me, didn't you? I don't know quite who I'm talking to, as obviously no one is aware of the existence of this blog. To be honest, I had pretty much forgotten about it myself, until the other day, when my friend Danyella reminded me of it. (This is the same Danyella who, way back when, left me about a dozen comments on my blog that I was forced to delete, as they mainly just said things like "hi.")

Well, it is now 2008. I think I may have missed 2007 entirely. Which is fine - nothing happened. If I HAD kept up this blog last year, I really would have had to pull stuff out of my ass to keep it interesting. Not like before, when my blogs had a lot of substance.

Okay... 'till 2009!

What's Wrong With Me?

RIGHT. As if I could answer that question in a single blog.

No, but seriously. No one else seems to have trouble writing these things except for me. Why can't I just talk about my day? Mull things over, philosophical-like, and not worry so much about always being quirky or funny or inventive? Maybe I have issues. "Maybe," he says.

Screw it all to heck. I'm going to start writing about my life. No more killer pizzas or dusty crannies or plays on words. Well, okay, there are still going to be plays on words - let's be honest. But they'll have meaning behind them.

This is my mid-year's resolution. It's time to fix me.

I Gave Dusty Crannies. Do You?

This was the subject line of a spam e-mail I received today. I don't know what this means, but I find it HYSTERICAL.

No, but please - if you find that you have any dusty crannies lying around, please forward.

No, I'm Not Giving Up On This, Dammit

Sometimes I just don't have anything to say. Or I'm busy. This WAS supposed to be a one-blog-a-year blog, you know. I've already exceeded my quota.

I'm Writing This Blog in My Socks and Underwear

Maybe you should ask yourself why that bothers you so much.

The Giant, Killer Pizza

My six-year-old brother wrote a story about a giant, killer pizza. Strangely, this is not the first time I have ever heard mention of the possible existence of just such a murderous pie. This leads me to suspect that perhaps the thing really exists. Not a pretty thought.

However, in the interest of being prepared, here are some ways to tell if you are about to be attacked by a giant, killer pizza:

1) You hear the distinct whir of a pizza slicer behind you.
2) You mention for the 500th time that you are lactose intolerant. Guess what. The giant, killer pizza is YOU intolerant.
3) You are in a bad part of town and forgot to bring with your trusty, wood-burning oven as defense.
4) You hear instrumental Italian music starting up and you can hear fat men screaming.
5) Someone says to you, "Look out! Pizza at three o'clock!"
6) You have just taunted or teased a giant, killer pizza.

The Afternoon

It is now the afternoon. How unfair to all other times that so much of the day is denied its own individuality, and must be referred to only as relates to one specific time - a time which, if viewed objectively, is really no better than any other? How would the spring season feel if we called it merely Post-March? Should we suddenly re-name the current Year of our Lord "Sometime After 2000?"

Just kidding, I don't really care.

Guess Who?

Guess who should be working right now instead of writing pointless blogs. I'll give you a hint: me.

Who Reads This Shit?

Who reads blogs, anyway? Certainly not me. Who am I writing this for, exactly? Am I just writing this for my own amusement? Perhaps. Perhaps. If you're reading this, let me know a) who you are, b) why you're reading this, c) what you think of it, and d) all of the above.

I would tell you a little something about myself, but as I currently have no proof that anyone other than myself is reading this shit, I don't see the motivation.