A, B, C, D, E, EFF

This is bee ess.

No one ever effing e-mails me.

I never get any effing e-mail.

Eff this.

What happened to the days when I was a giddy young slip of a thing, getting e-mail left and right because AOL was a new toy that I eventually had to cut myself from, lest the whole of me be thrown into the fire?

Oh right, those days were retarded.

And I don't have TIME anymore. Hell, I hardly have time to BLOG. BLOG, BLOG, BLOG, BLOG.... BLOOOOOOOOGGGGGGGGG............

More dots make it cool.

...................................................

It's not just an ellipsis, it's a megallipsis!!!!!

People are morons.

I want to write a play titled Every Driver in Omaha is a Cocksucking Jackass.

And so I moved all my stuff into Eric's house, right? Well, there are things scattered hither and thither, and there is an old photo of my family's pet potbelly pig, Petunia.

And every time someone comes into Eric's room they stare at it and go "What the hell is THAT?" And we tell them - it's a pig. And they ask, in the same asstarded voice, "Well, what's it doing THERE?" As if somehow the photo of a pig is out of place, like you don't keep photos of pigs in a random spot sitting on a shelf because the room's unclean - it's as if they think we're actually keeping the PIG ITSELF in the room, or something.

Why do people ask effing asstarded questions like that?

I've been listening to Aqualung. They're good. If you don't agree, eff you.