This "break" from blogging daily has been protracted.
I can't honestly say that I'm sorry about that. You probably aren't either, or you wouldn't be if you knew that my inclination upon recognition of such vacuity is to be more vacuous than before in a pre-emptive navelgaze. But enough self-effacement--I don't know about you all, but I DEPLORED the 1990s, which (as a decade) kinda ruined things for everybody with its inability to appreciate an external world. Its umbrella of irony did precious little to shield us from the pernicious Reign of the Redneck that followed, with all of its prideful, manipulative glorification of stupidity.
Now I'm thinking about the 1990s, and I wish dearly that I hadn't begun posting tonight.
Hootie and the Blowfish? Break my neck, please. Twice.
Red Hot Chili Peppers? Are you JOKING?
(I'm torn, because one of my favorite people ever is closely related to one of them, but I suspect that she will take my editorializing in the spirit that intends it.)
One of the best things about being a man is that Anthony Kiedis will never, ever think about my privates. Is "Blood Sugar Sex Majik" a modern concept album about diabetes and intimacy?
My sentences haven't held together, which is not to say that I've not been functioning properly; it's much more for me a matter of having that languid January atmosphere subsume proceedings with a deafening-yet-personable buzzing.
I'm going to go, because I am irascible. But nonetheless enthused. La la la.
I can't honestly say that I'm sorry about that. You probably aren't either, or you wouldn't be if you knew that my inclination upon recognition of such vacuity is to be more vacuous than before in a pre-emptive navelgaze. But enough self-effacement--I don't know about you all, but I DEPLORED the 1990s, which (as a decade) kinda ruined things for everybody with its inability to appreciate an external world. Its umbrella of irony did precious little to shield us from the pernicious Reign of the Redneck that followed, with all of its prideful, manipulative glorification of stupidity.
Now I'm thinking about the 1990s, and I wish dearly that I hadn't begun posting tonight.
Hootie and the Blowfish? Break my neck, please. Twice.
Red Hot Chili Peppers? Are you JOKING?
(I'm torn, because one of my favorite people ever is closely related to one of them, but I suspect that she will take my editorializing in the spirit that intends it.)
One of the best things about being a man is that Anthony Kiedis will never, ever think about my privates. Is "Blood Sugar Sex Majik" a modern concept album about diabetes and intimacy?
My sentences haven't held together, which is not to say that I've not been functioning properly; it's much more for me a matter of having that languid January atmosphere subsume proceedings with a deafening-yet-personable buzzing.
I'm going to go, because I am irascible. But nonetheless enthused. La la la.
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