Ranting at Monday, 22 March 2010

Yeah, that's how the French write dates. Got a problem with that?

So this is the part where I start rambling on and on about whatever's floating through my brain. Except, as is typical, I haven't had a good Monday. So I'm in a bad mood, and my most of thoughts have to do with how tense I am or how I feel like I'm not doing enough with my life. For example, I should probably be doing some serious writing somewhere rather than piling all of my proverbial eggs in the blog basket. Because when the blog bubble bursts, bytes and bytes of bullshit will be condemned to whatever corner of Internet hell is reserved for things like America Online, with its crappy graphics and dinosaur Web browser. But it wasn't one of those cool dinosaurs, like a T. Rex or an Iguanadon. No, it was one of the ones whose job it was to get eaten by the cool dinosaurs. And that cool dinosaur was, of course, Netscape, who was then eaten by a sabre-toothed tiger. Take that, ship-steering-wheel-browser-thing. Apparently, Netscape still exists somewhere.

So last Thursday, I went to see a particular band I particularly enjoy at a particular venue in a particular city. The show was peculiar in that the band's equipment went particularly haywire and they slopped their way through 50 minutes of music that is usually particularly tight. Oh well, everyone has off-nights. I was particularly disappointed. This paragraph makes you question the meaning of the word "particular," doesn't it?

Then I got pulled over on the way home for having a loud exhaust, and while my car's exhaust is far from quiet, it's not exceedingly loud. Not louder than cars that are intentionally loud. I'm looking at you, fart-cannoned Civic.

So rather than fix the car, which has already absorbed a lot of money this year, I'm going to get a new one. And by new, I mean used. But I am willing to trade; so if you'd like a 1997 Saturn station wagon, I'd be willing to take a used Bugatti Veyron straight up. I'll even throw in the parts that have fallen off the interior at no extra charge.

Please excuse me, my kitchen's on fire. Not in the literal sense. Or even really the figurative sense. In fact, I'm quite unsure why I typed that. Just seemed like the thing to do at the time. And look at you, sucker, you're reading this nonsense. Jesus, this must be almost as bad as reading "Twilight," or as it probably should be better known "The Goth Babysitter's Club."

Srsly. m nt sppsd t b sng vwls. nd md mstk lst wk. t's hrd t vd vwls whn yr grmmrn.

I typed "vd."