The rest of them were cryptic things like “Why are they eating their lunch in a library?” that were meant to be starting points to longer blog entries I never got to (and eventually forgot even what they were meant to be about), several rants about Comcast that I decided no one needed to be subjected to, and once-topical posts that would make absolutely no sense now that it’s years later.

So, goodbye to that crap. I don’t feel obligated to finish any of it any more. I do feel obligated to post here more often, though. Clearing the detritus out of my head, onto the Internet, where it could be free, used to be therapeutic. Yes, this blog is my mind’s garbage disposal. Or, to use another metaphor (I hate metaphors), my words are puppies that I’m setting free in the woods because I can’t be arsed to take care of them anymore. They’ll be better off on their own. It’s the right thing to do. Those words never did like being cooped up inside, anyway.

If somebody else has any purpose for what I write, that’s their own problem. Personally, I rarely look back at anything I’ve posted. I don’t bother proofreading, either. By the time I’m at the end of whatever I’m babbling, I usually can’t even remember what I’d started writing about in the first place. This junk is just one wrung above stream-of-consciousness. I just want my ideas gone, so they’re no longer my responsibility. Ideas are troublesome little bastards to have bouncing around in your brain. You deal with them!

Oh, yeah. I also want to start not being a dumbshit who never updates her blog, again, because I’ve completely fallen out of the habit of writing. Usually when I’m not posting here, I’m still scribbling away in 87 notebooks, but I haven’t written anything for a while other than notes for things I want to write but probably never will (because I’ll forget what the notes mean and/or be unable to read my own craptastic handwriting by the time I get around to it).

Encourage me and comment, or something.

So, what have I been doing with myself… Not a whole lot. We are so incredibly broke. I go to work, I come home, and we gather around the TV’s warm glowing warming glow. Thinking is overrated, so we mainly stick to trashy reality shows. Lately we’ve been murdering our braincells with the train-wreck that is “Daisy of Love”. That is, indeed, the proper name for the show. Daisy has had to correct us several times. It turns out that neither “Daisy of Kill” nor “I Love Liquor” are official titles for the program. (I, for one, would definitely tune in to a show called “I Love Liquor”. Then again, that’s every reality show, isn’t it.) “Daisy of Love” features a house full of dumb-as-bricks men vying for the attention of a plastic leprechaun who was discarded from “Rock of Love”. You have to be in a certain mindset to convince yourself to even press play on the DVR to start this show…

“Daisy of Love”, however, is but a poor replacement for our old standby, “Tool Academy”. If you haven’t seen it, this clip will tell you everything you need to know:

The rest of the show mainly consists of these douchebags saying “dude”, “fuck” and “bro” and flexing. Speaking of which, meet Matsuflex:

We were “lucky” enough to be in the same place at the same time as him the other day. Look at this shit:

That was a memorable evening. If only I could remember it… I still can’t stop laughing. [Correction: I can remember Sean yelling "Man Panties" at him repeatedly...] You should follow Matsuflex on Twitter. Trust me, he has only the most profound things to say. I know I couldn’t live my life without knowing if he was presently at the beach, at the gym, getting a tan, eating, or getting paid to make an appearance at a club (as far as I can tell, he doesn’t ever do anything else).

And that’s essentially my life lately. Here’s what I do to cope with its crapitude. Mmmmm, breakfast:

(10 points for each one of those pills you can identify)

It’s about that time now, actually. I suppose I should go and put on pants, or something. Stupid USCIS! Stupid work!

But I’m meeting up with Sean and the band for their Toronto on Saturday. That’ll be fun. That is, if I manage to get out of the house on time to make my USCIS appointment in two hours, and they don’t hassle me about rubber-stamping my passport. I can easily leave the country, but getting back in is more of a problem… (Or, um… inconvenience? I wouldn’t necessarily call it a “problem”. As in, who the hell would ever say “oh no, they won’t let me into the United States”. Well, who from Canada, anyway.)

So four days until Toronto, Ontari-ari-ari-o. Haven’t been there for quite a while, so I’m not sure what I’m gonna do. Ideally, I would hit Queen street with my mighty, powerful American dollars, but it seems that I don’t have a terrible lot of those…

La la la. I’m mainly writing this because I have the chance for once. Maybe I’ll come up with some non-retardedness later in the week.

More zombie goodness last night… Above is what I looked like when I got home. Luckily the fake blood didn’t stain anything, including my hair, but it’s a bitch getting that stuff in your eyes, for future reference (at least if you’re wearing contacts). I was half blind for a little bit there, but I don’t think I klutzed it up too much, considering. I haven’t noticed any new bruises that don’t wash off, at least. Last time, I was covered in them. Then again, that seems to be the case most days. I pretty much guarantee that since I’m not really awake yet, that the first thing I’ll do once I get up to get back into bed in a minute will be… walking straight into my doorpost.

I was a weird little kid.

But it kept me from picking my nose…

P.S. I’m not likely to reply to you, anyway. You’re all idiots.