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[27 Jan 2008|04:02pm] |
 For some reason I was discussing candy with my friend Patrick the other day and the topic of how good Snickers are came up. I told him that I've never had Snickers before and he acted like I told him the color of grass was red (side thought, but look outside and picture the grass being red. Weird!). I look at him and go, it's not a big deal. It's not like I'm missing out on something.
It's nuts, caramel, and chocolate right? I have a feeling of what that tastes like, no matter the name stamped on the packaging. There are probably millions of people along the same line -- there's probably even people who don't like Snickers. How do you know if you don't like it, he says. I guess I don't know if I don't like it. But I do know one thing, I'll never figure out the answer to that question.
To cut his "what is the matter with you, freak?" look in half, I told him that I've also never had Butterfinger, Payday, 5th Avenue, Take 5, and those Reese's cup things. Nasty! I don't know what it is, but it's something about a brown mixture in a circular cup that just utterly puts me off. Then he kind of understand where I was coming from.
Mark says I should get an epinephrine shot and then eat a Snickers, so I can try it. I'll pass, because feeling your throat close up is one of the worst feelings in the world. In middle school, I won a yellow packet of M&M's for doing something sweet in class. In hindsight, I should go find that teacher and beat him in the head with a packet of bricks. I thought it would be alright if I tried to suck the chocolate from around the peanut.
An hour later I was in the hospital.
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[26 Jan 2008|12:55am] |
FYI: Babel is NOT a movie you can watch without subtitles.
Also, from Ivanna:
In the future, is the separation between motorcycle and car nonexistent?
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[23 Jan 2008|08:40pm] |
Things I dislike.
"Hey, do you wanna go catch a movie or something? I heard Cloverfield was neat."
Sure.
Sure? What do you mean, sure? I don't see how this is a sure kind of question. In fact, I don't see how sure is any kind of answer to any question. Do you want to go to the movies or not? It's a simple yes or no. Give me a definitive answer. Yes; okay let's go. No; okay I'm going to ask somebody worth my time.
Sure; meaning I don't know if you really want to or not. I don't know if you're saying that just because I asked and you really don't care either way. I just dislike the way it sounds. The ambiguity, the way you make it seem like you're doing me the favor. Sure. Please keep your indecisiveness away from me.
"I don't really care about Heath Ledger's death. Do I know him? No. Do you? No."
Fair enough.
Fair enough? What's fair here? Is enough, fair? Or is fair, enough? I don't know how to respond to you saying this besides punching you or putting up an away message because you're annoying. You're not even going to have the balls to argue or present something intelligent for your course? You're just going to respond with a phrase that can be positive or negative and stupid.
I agree to disagree. I agree. You're wrong. I can see your point, but I like mine better. You're a fucking idiot. Any of that, I'll take over a fair enough. Like I said, ambiguity in response irks me. Stop being so dodgy, so "either way." It all just makes me want to throw pottery at your face. You'll respond then, by ducking.
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[16 Jan 2008|07:06pm] |
I just saw There Will Be Blood (I will bitch about it later). Let's talk about how much I hate the south. I walk outside the movie theater and nearly break my fucking neck. The entire ground is covered in a layer of ICE. And sprawling across grass is about an inch thick of SNOW. Oh no, is my first thought. Oh fuck, is my second thought. OH GOD! Why?
Because people in the south
kill people when it snows!
I get into my car. Twenty minutes separating me from safety. I start the car. It purrs like a fat cat, ready to obliterate any southern fool who gets in its path. That's right, Optimus Regal, you do me good. Five minutes and I'm already defrosted. You do me good here. I pull out of the parking lot to the intersecting road.
Right. Traffic is already backing up towards the main roads. Left. Looking clear. Go! And Optimus Regal purrs into the street. A mixture of sleet and ice slap the front of my car. Fuck you, go back to Michigan, I mutter under my breath. Seriously, wasn't it sixty-eight or something yesterday?
Speed limit's forty-five, I turn onto another road. The limit ups itself to fifty-five. Two cars turns onto the road in front of me. Damnit. The car in front of me starts to speed up. No. Don't do fifty-five, you idiot. Look at how the road winds! I slow down, putting space in between myself and him.
I glance down at the speedometer. And BAM! Tires are fucking squealing! Cars are spinning around! Rubber is crunching up against slick ice! The car in front of me spins around once and flies off the right side of the road. WHOA! Only the thing is, the back of his truck is still in the fucking road.
And here I am, six or seven car lengths behind him doing a good forty. I am on his ass in a heartbeat! Not even that, a fucking half a second passed and I was riding him like Halle Berry in Monster's Ball. I know that braking would only send me into a swerve -- but I slam on the brakes anyway.
Call it instinct. Call it stupidity. Ice skids up under neath my wheels rendering me in a boat on water. The "No Traction" light pops on with a beep. Thank you, I know. I jam the wheel to the left. Optimus Regal violently jerks into the oncoming lane. And it keeps going! I jerk the wheel to the right in balance and Optimus swerves into the middle of the road. I pull into the right lane again at a snail's pace.
I look behind me as traffic slows up for the idiot on half of the road. And I don't understand it, why is it snowing here? WHY? Why can't driver's training have a snow edition for fucking losers who live in the south? All I know is, I detest the south with every fiber that makes me. It fills me with nothing but fire and rage. And now I need to call my daddy.
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[14 Jan 2008|09:19pm] |
Some questions regarding Grey's Anatomy.
1. Do you watch Grey's Anatomy?
2. How much do you weigh, how tall are you?
3. Do you go to the gym a lot?
4. Where do you live?
5. Are you by yourself?
6. How long would it take the cops to reach your house?
If you answered no to the first question, disregard this entirely. If you answered yes, keep reading. I am writing a paper on the statistical statistics of people who watch Grey's Anatomy. As such, I need these pertinent informations to compare with the general IQ of people who do not watch Grey's Anatomy. The controlled variable.
Studies suggest that people who watch Grey's Anatomy have been linked with the following actions: talking on their cell phones while driving, not using turn signals when turning, shitting on public toilet seats, not covering their mouth when they cough, walking really slow when you know there's people behind you, stiffing the workforce on tips, caring about what those bitches do on The Hills, Tila Tequila, and other general buffoonery.
If you think you have any of these symptoms, then it is of the upmost importance that you answer the next two questions very carefully.
7. Do you call Grey's Anatomy by the abbreviation Grey's?
If the answer is no, disregard the following question.
If the answer is yes, please continue the survey.
8. Can I come in?
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[14 Jan 2008|07:36pm] |
NO.
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[11 Jan 2008|06:44pm] |
The best movie of 2007.
And nobody even knows it.
These top ten lists that spring up whenever December gets ripped from your calendar are usually chock full of pretentiousness and inflated Academy recognition. It leaves us with a list of predictable "feel good" and inspirational movies. Movies that try to say something. Crash, Babel, Children of Men, etc.
But what about movies that are pure escapism -- their sole purpose to entertain. They seem to get shelved behind straight to DVD movies and never looked at again. Planet Terror is the best horror/homage flick I've seen. Not the best movie, mind you -- the best horror movie.
The thing that really puts my undies in a knot is the babe with a MACHINE GUN FOR A LEG. On what level does that not make you say awesome? It combines my two favorite things, guns and babes. And the fact that it happens to be on none other than Rose McGowan makes my heart palpitate. Who cares how it works? That she's obviously not pulling the trigger. Or how it magically switches from bullets to rockets. She has a MACHINE GUN FOR A LEG!
Dakota: Tony, if anyone comes up to the car, I want you to shoot them. Just like in your video games: shoot them in the head.
Tony: What if it's dad?
Dakota: Especially if it's your dad.
I think Robert Rodriguez has some of the best dialogue in his movies. "I'm gonna eat your brains and gain your knowledge." Stupid, but hilarious when it's coming from a zombie. I don't know what it is, but the words, the delivery, coupled with the soundtrack -- all of it together, just sends shivers down my back.
Now that's entertainment. The main characters are brilliantly written, action heroes and horror icons. I fell in love with Marley Shelton's Dr. Dakota the moment she stepped out of her house. And Rose McGowan's stripper comedian-wannabe turned badass is one of the strongest femme fatale characters as of late.
It's a movie where you can throw yourself into the imaginary, where you don't have to care about the message, pushing reality out the window. I will admit it is overly gruesome and nobody needs to see a pair of melting balls. But you gotta respect it for what it is. I haven't had this much fun watching a movie since the Spiderman 3 bar/dance scene.
The only negative points I give Planet Terror is for Quentin Tarantino being in it.
El Wray: Go. Leave me.
Cherry Darling: I am not leaving you here like this. Motherfuckers around here eat road kill.
Recommendations for other movies please?
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[10 Jan 2008|07:22pm] |
The worst movie of 2007.
Hi. I just watched No Country For Old Men, and then promptly took a shard of glass to my retinas. So if I make a spelling mistake, you'll have to bear with me. I can't see. Spoilers for the rest of the entry.
It began amazingly, I was riveted to the screen. Who could predict that watching Javier Bardem walk around in the dark for thirty minutes, with a pneumatic system that kicks ass, would be suspenseful. He portrayed his character flawlessly. He was a cold hearted killer, with eyes as black as coal.
The first sour note that struck me (or didn't, in this case) was the lack of sound. I listened for music: a score, a soundtrack, Shakira yelling, anything. Yet, the only thing in the background was a harsh Texan wind. A little bit odd for me, as a score adds emotion to a film, but the cold silence did add to the suspense. So I momentarily digress.
They made us fall in love with Josh Brolin's character, his sweet wife making him even more endearing. And then he is on the run from this psychotic killer, making the audience root for his character. Tommy Lee Jone's cop character tells a boring story and then suddenly, the scene fades to black then fades back up and the main character is dead. And we never see him again...
That's when the film turned for me. In a scene that added no development to the movie, except to push my finger closer to the stop button, the killer confronts the wife. Okay, we get it! He's a psychotic killer and life means nothing to him. We understood this within the first ten minutes, no reason to go on for two hours about it. Then wifey is dead. Or is she? Because that scene was the epitome of vague.
Then Tommy Lee tells another lame ass story with the ending line "And I woke up." Cut to credits. Well, I woke up too and then scratched the back of my brain with a bullet. It's like the film suddenly decided to press fast forward and skip the main character's death, the wife's death(?), how the killer escaped, how he got the money, and what happened to the Mexicans. This would have been perfectly acceptable if time was a story device used throughout the entirety of the film.
It wasn't.
The beginning showed promise -- it was clever, well written, and suspenseful, up until the beginning of the resolution and then everything was shot to Satan. A bad movie is a bad movie through and through. An EXTREMELY bad movie is a good movie turned bad half way through. And that is why No Country for Old Men is the worst movie of 2007.
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[07 Jan 2008|06:54pm] |
 What is this "racist" bullshit?
I am tired of people who aren't black trying to pull the race card. Why can't you let us have that one thing? It's ours! Fuckers. It's the only thing we have left when things never go our way. And now some bitches are trying to take that from us.
Beaner's coffee is changing their name to Biggby because apparently Beaners is racist to Hispanics. On the grounds that they used to pick beans and shit. I am also struggling to get a name change approved. Everything that says 100% Cotton, should be changed to 100% Cotton Gin. Because Cotton as a name is racist to my people as we used to pick Cotton, while white people whipped and stoned us.
And only changing it to something a great black man invited, Eli Whit's-his-face, can reverse the detrimental societal effects it has on it. More to the point, cotton is white and glorifies the white man. Because it says white is powerful and strong, and the whites were powerful and strong over us as we picked it for them.
The new cotton, 100% Cotton Gin, will be dyed black to represent the struggle the greats like Harriet, Rosa, Martin and company went through to get us where we are today.
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[24 Dec 2007|07:57pm] |
Seven? Sorry, I'm aiming for ten.
My dad is in for it when I move home on Friday (already home). He called me the other day to talk about how there was nothing good on television anymore, and that when I move home he would sell his soul to these assholes. But I'm putting that sin on hold, because I think it's about time I bust this out:
And blow his mind!
I'm getting good at what I do. Blowing minds, transforming lives. I've hooked so many people onto this show, seven to be in fact -- but I'm still aiming for those last three to pick up the spare. Pops is number eight.
My dad is like Columbus, looking for shit in the wrong places. You can't really find good television at three in the afternoon. You can't find anything when you're looking in the wrong place. Sure, you'll find a gem once in a while, like... okay, North America. But once you get there, you'll realize the first ship sailed for those shores long ago and you're late to the party. Sorry, Columdum.
So I'm going to point my father in the right direction, just show him where the party's been for the past three years and where it's going. This show needs to go down in history as one of the best told stories of our generation. Without this show, no one would have dared to attempt something as grand as Heroes.
I know more about these characters than I do about some of my own relatives. Each and every one of their complexes is laid out and dissected so carefully, with every regard for detail. I still think it's a little before its time in a market dominated by "hot mom and fat dad" sitcoms. There has never been an episode that I've disliked, reading into it for the bigger part of the story.
I can't wait for February and the return of hearing Michael screaming "Walt!" at the top of his lungs for five minutes straight. If ABC doesn't Alias this show, I don't think any harm can be done in the remaining three years it has to air. And I know, whatever ending they give us, I'll be satisfied with.
I'll keep you posted on what daddy thinks. And before the premiere in February, I'll be on number nine.
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[13 Dec 2007|08:27pm] |
I've said it before and I'll say it again:
People who support Christmas are crazy.
The holiday season rolls around and everyone is expected to be nice and cheery, with rosy cheeks and bowls of jelly. But what if you just came off a horrible day of work and there's nothing in the world that will make you cheery? Then you get called a fucking Grinch and people look at you like you killed Jesus.
Just because Jesus' birth happens to be around the corner doesn't mean you have to turn into some sort of Holiday Lunatic. Same goes for that whole Hanukkah thing and let's not forget Yule or Kwanzaa. In fact, just to be PC, let me include some Satanic Holidays in here and even Ramadan and um what else is nearby?
As I was saying, just because Jesus Christ or your mother's credit card happens to be peering over your shoulder doesn't mean you have to start getting all ooey gooey on everyone. I don't want to hear a whimsical holiday story, nor do I want you to tell me you love me out of nowhere just because you watched Scrooge last night.
Unless, of course, there actually IS some sort of ghost leering over your head informing you that chains will be bound to you forevermore unless you calm down, then I don't think there's any reason to turn into the complete opposite of yourself over December. You don't see me getting harassed by Jacob Marley, so I doubt you're getting the old one two choke hold thanks to his sterling silver QVC chains either.
( Four Calling Birds )
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[09 Dec 2007|06:49pm] |
Why is my life so fucking funny? Such a joke.
Lets be reals. Seventy five percent of the population are stupid-heads. And that's being liberal. If you don't know what a stupid-head is, it can either be two things. One: a person who is stupid and has a head. Two: a person who is so full of dumb, that in place of their head is Stupid. I just made that shit a noun.
These stupid-heads like to conglomerate and meet up at once place. And of course it's on the internet. No no no, it's not Myspace, Facebook, or Livejournal. It's this website. Craigslist.
That's the cause of all my stupid right now. If you are one of these stupid-heads that are contacting me through craigslist, there is only one thing you'll get from me:
Let's make sense of this. I placed an ad (the first mistake) on Craigslist for someone to take over my lease, so I can peace out of this town. The first guy that contacted me, promptly decided to come knocking on my door without letting me know. He was fifty-nine and he asked me if the house was still available for $275 a month. I had to let him know it's a room in a house, not a house, but a room in one. 275 for a house? This ain't Monopoly.
I took the address out of the ad after that. Weeks and potential subleasers later, a guy calls me up.
"Hi, I was calling about the ad you put up on craigslist for a house in Lansing. Is it still available?"
"Yes, it's still available. Do you want to come see it?"
"I had a couple of questions first. What's the area like surrounding it and are there nearby grocery stores?"
"It's actually a really nice neighborhood. Like, I've never had a problem living here and it's right off the main road Martin Luther King. And there's a bunch of restuarants and stuff like that on it."
"Okay. I was just asking because I know a lot of the neighborhoods in Flint where I'm from, the streets around Martin Luther King are very black infested and... aren't good."
And the next thing that motherfucker heard was a dial tone.
His exact words, black infested. Like we're some kind of disgusting parasitic insect to him. Black people aren't good. Where's Kanye West and his ego when you need it? So I promptly gave that fool a dial tone. Because what do stupid-heads get from me?
But the fat lady hasn't sung. My phone rings again and it's his number. I hit the button on the side of my phone to silence him. He calls two more times and then on the final call, he leave a voicemail. As soon as my phone beeps, I check it.
"Hey, I don't know what happened, I think there was a bad connection. But I'm still really interested in the house. And you can give me a call back at this number..."
At first I think about calling him back to let him know that the connection was fine and I hung up on him. But, I thought of something better.
"Hello?"
"Yeah, I get pretty bad reception. You wouldn't want to live here. A couple years ago, this black guy broke into our house and stole my roommate's jewlrey. And her baby. Then he sold the baby to Angelina Jolie."
Click.
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[07 Dec 2007|01:01pm] |
A couple minutes ago, I was standing in line at Wendy's. I glance at the couple in front of me. They're kissing and in each other's faces and make little cute noises. I throw up and look back at the menu. The line moves forward. A young girl walks into the joint and steps kitty corner to me.
Knowing she wanted to butt in there, I took a step forward so she wouldn't try to edge herself in between me and the lovebirds. She waits for a second, and then calls attention to herself.
"Scuse me!" -- She was black, of course.
"Can I get ma cheese melted. My burga is cold and da cheese ain't even melted."
The young boy looks up from the register at her. His expressions telling me he didn't know what to do. He glances over at, I'm assuming, the manager to catch her attention. He succeeds and the manager takes over.
"What kind of burger did you have?"
"I was just in da drive through, and da girl gave me a cold burga."
"Is that a junior bacon?" -- "Ye-uh."
She hands the bag to the manager and she goes in the back to get another burger. Meanwhile, I stand there foaming at the mouth. The young boy looks around nervously, like it's his first day or something. The couple in front of me still haven't been helped. They look at each other and kiss. I vomit again. The girl mutters under her breath, but audibly so everyone in the immediate vicinity hears.
"Cold ass burga, can'even get my cheese melted."
The manager comes back out and hands her a freshly made burger. The girl looks in the bag and tries feeling the buger through the wrapper.
"Is da cheese melted?" -- "Yes, I made sure." -- "Dank you."
And the girl walks out of the restuarant. I hate rude customers so much. All that over some damn cheese? Good God! I get up to the register and ask for Chunky Chicken Salad Combo, because it looks delicious on the sign hanging from the ceiling. And baby is starving!
"We don't have the chunky chicken anymore."
Then why is it advertised!
I wanted to ask him. But this kid looked like he was about to have a heart attack, so I refrained. I arch my head back to look at the sign once more, and order the chicken nugget combo. I pay for it and step aside. The boy gets a bag out and puts a large fry into it. Then he puts a burger into the bag. Yes, I am looking at him like he's crazy. I arch back to peer at the sign to make sure I said the right combo number.
I did. He sets my drink next to the bag and peers over at the register screen at my order, then looks back into the bag. He then sheepishly looks up at me knowing full well I didn't order a "burga." I give him a chance.
"Is that everything?"
"Yes."
I stare at him for a second. He looks like he wants to vomit, but the lovebirds are nowhere to be found.
"Don't worry about it, this is just as good too."
And I walk out of Wendy's. I know what its like to start a new job and I've been there before. You're nervous and unexperienced. That boy had every twitch and look of confusion on his face that is humanly possible. So I gave him a break. Which leaves me where I am right now:
THIS BURGER IS SO DAMN COLD AND MY CHEESE IS NOT MELTED BECAUSE THERE IS NO FUCKING CHEESE ON IT. AND ALL I WANTED WAS SOME GODDAMN CHICKEN NUGGETS. I HATE YOU, DAVE!
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[06 Dec 2007|07:08pm] |
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music |
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Beyonce - Upgrade U |
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Wow. Everywhere I go, she is there. In your face. Everywhere. I turn and look and she's there. I go to work and she's there. I drive my car and she's sitting in my back seat. I use the bathroom and she is peering up at me from the toilet. I go home and she is there, lying in my bed. I go to sleep and she is in my goddamn dreams. Like she is on some omnipresent shit.
BEYONCE, PLEASE SIT DOWN!
You are everywhere! How are you stalking everybody on the planet at the same time! How are you doing this! There's only so much we can handle, Beyonce. And you have pushed and pushed us so far past the limit that we breathe Beyonce. Like... it's not even oxgen anymore, it's Beyonce. And we can't take any more of this!
What's the first thing you think of when you see this:
DO IT! For God's sake, just stop it. No upgrading us, no ringing the alarm, no putting my boxes to the left. Sit down!
We loved you in Destiny's Child. You were somewhat dominant, but the best has a right to be cocky. And the other girls were their to pull on your weave, when you wanted to be everyone on the planet at the same time. They canceled you out. But now that you're gone, you need to STOP, Beyonce. Stop walking to the studio to record albums, stop shooting videos for EVERY song on those albums, stop it. Stop walking, stop talking, stop acting, stop making commercials, stop shooting photo-ops.
STOP BREATHING!
Dear Beyonce:
I can't go anywhere, without thinking that you're there. Seems like you're EVERYWHERE I go. I swear that I'm having deja vu. I don't want to put on my freakum dress! What if I just want to leave it where it is! I know you want to upgrade the world, but I don't want Audemars Piguet watches or Cartier top clips. I just want to look to the left and have you NOT BE THERE.
I hope you break a fucking heel,
Brandon
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| Note: This post was not written from inside Mengus' asshole. |
[02 Dec 2007|03:07pm] |
Validation died summer of '05
Everybody needs validation. In some form or another, everybody wants it. A craving that every person needs to satiate. And you won't ever be satisfied, because once you achieve some form of it -- you only want more. Anyone who denies they attempts at validation, is a liar.
Hell, I wanted all the validation in the world for the words I wrote on this site. I wanted to top my six hundred friends of, I wanted people to think I was hilarious (which I can be, which anyone can be if they mix the right letters together). I wanted to prove I was different from the triviality of livejournal, that my day to day occurings were always riveting or hilarious.
But the real crave for validation was present in communities. Am I pretty? Do I write elegantly? Validate me! Tell me what I want to hear, so I can come away from this with something more. I participated in several livejournal communities that "rated" people on their journal's merit. It was fun, in a slight elitist way. An even bigger validation is when people seek it out from you.
What spawned my thoughts on this was coming across a community called Uncensored LJ. A quick scroll through proved interesting until my attention span would allow no more. But then I begin to see something, posts by users on my friends list noting particularly "well written" livejournal entries. The same users that were part of the am I pretty/do I write elegantly communities.
At first I thought nothing of it, coincidence. People who care about writing in a writing community. So what? But then, I noticed that the posts people were making mostly glorified their own friends. It was a "you mention me, I'll mention you" sort of thing. Nothing new, nothing outside, but the same people within the rating clique doing the same thing all over again.
Wow, when does this circle jerk get old? If you want to write, write. Fuck validation. Fuck what people care. Do what you want to do. And I'm sure their whole mantra is, they want to find amazing journals to read. That's the same thing I said when I was involved. If you're looking for something interesting to read, why don't you go to a bookstore? Getting it from a site full of inanity and narcissim doesn't seem to add up.
Why search the pawn shop for a diamond, when you can go to a jeweler's and take your pick of the best?
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[22 Nov 2007|07:15pm] |
You ever ate Thanksgiving dinner with black people? Trust me...
YOU DON'T FUCKING WANT TO!
Squanto is flipping 360's in his grave. Right now that pile of red shit that you see above is sitting in a pot on the stove in my grandmother's kitchen. The mere smell of of it makes me want to puke. Any of you curious enough to try pig intestines?
Before it's cooked and cut, it looks exactly like what you would imagine it to. The outside is hard with a tough skin wrapped around it. When you bite into it, the skin breaks with a sickening crunch around your teeth. The inside is soft and moist and tastes like an asshole. And the smell that's wafting through the house right now reminds me of rancid milk. Clumpy and clotted as your pour it down the drain.
That's my aunt's favorite dish. She cooks it every Thanksgiving and tries to force me to eat it. Being at school, the last three Thanksgivings, the pig intestines sort of slipped my mind. And I've made the smallest big mistake of my life by deciding to come home and see my family.
If my aunt tries to force me to eat that foul, filthy swine like she did several years ago, I will fucking spit in that bitches' face. For the last thirty minutes, I've been thinking about how I will go fucking INSANE if any of my stupid relatives say shit to me. Like the shit between me and my aunt got so serious at one point (read the second half of this post) my dad FORBID us from talking to each other. I am so ready to hit that bitch. I hope she steps to.
I never understood white people's obsession with pumpkin pie. That shit is mediocre at best. And it's also made of pumpkins? Who eats pumpkins? White people, that's who. Now if we were talking about sweet potatoe pie. Ooh ooh baby! That almost makes coming home worth it! Mmm MM!
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[19 Nov 2007|05:48pm] |
Operation: Get My Fucking Music Back.
What are some torrent search websites I can use to illegally download the albums I don't want to buy? I would just look pathetic going into Best Buy and purchasing Oops... I Did It Again again. I really want to fill up my iTunes with every song I had. Even with the shitty pop albums that I shouldn't admit to owning, but I don't care because Toxic is a sick song. And I don't give a shit if you disagree.
Torrentspy.com pussied up and started denying access to people who live in the United States. Thanks Hilary Rosen! And Isohunt was always second in command, but it's just not finding what I want. I'm already familiar with bitenova, mininova, and torrentreactor which all suck more dick than Larry Craig. I need some new fresh sites, surely there have to be some of those around.
Speaking of things illegal. They shut down TV Links and I am so sad. Because that was the one site I could cure my obsession with Lost on. I need a new site to watch my shows on and get my movie-ing on. So can somebody help me out? I know of peekvid and alluc.org, but let me make another Larry Craig joke in their name.
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[05 Nov 2007|07:25pm] |
What are your top
five albums of all time?
1
2
3
4
5
 ( . )
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[04 Nov 2007|10:55pm] |
The simple things in life.
The cool side of the pillow on a hot summer's night. The absolute silence created after the refrigerator shuts off. The smell of freshly laundered clothes. The cool temperature after a hot rain in eighty degree weather. Closing your eyes after a long day of work. The sun not setting until well after eight o'clock. The taste of expensive cheesecake at a fancy restaurant. The first kiss after you leave her at her door. Walking around without a shirt.
The extreme temperature shock of jumping into a pool. Finally being able to relieve a full bladder. Wearing socks that came right out of the dryer. A glass of water to quench that insatiable thirst. Walking out of the blistering sun into a cool, air conditioned house. Laying in a hammock with nothing but a good book and the gentle breeze of wind. Walking around in a new pair of shoes.
Going for a midnight drive with no destination in sight. The very first minutes of your favorite television show. Putting a nice paycheck into your bank account. A really good song played over and over. Waking up with a nose free from blockage. Realizing that your headache has been gone for a while now. Finding that one shirt or pair of jeans that flatters everything. The gas meter in your car being past the full line.
Picking your nose in privacy. When all of the dishes are in the cupboards. Having a twenty minute conversation with your best friend. Your place of residence with no other occupants at the time. The end of a successful year. waking up by running water all over your body. Freshly cut fingernails. Checking the mail for that one item and finding it there. Recognizing the simple things that please you. A home cooked meal wafting throughout your house.
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[18 May 2007|01:13pm] |
Sleep with one eye open.
These nasty fearless motherfuckers are known to like dark, moist areas, but they often find their way into homes. They skirt around at astonishing speeds with astounding agility. They have fourteen pairs of disgusting legs; poisoned tipped frontal arms; an appetite for spiders, silverfish, and bed bugs; and an uncanny ability to scare the fuck out of 160 pound human beings.
They lack courtesy. They lack mercy. They lack tact. They'll pop up during your meal. Or when you're watching the telly. In the shower and under the toilet seat. And even while you sleep. We cannot be sure of their motives, but we can be sure of this: they are growing... they are learning.... they are watching.
Take a good look at this picture. Know thyne enemy. Observe the obscenity and the vulgarity of their nasty wirey legs. These malignant vermin are not docile. They are not happy. They are pissed off! They are MADE FOR BATTLE... and you know what? We'll bring their war to them.
I was laying there, in bed, minding as much of my own business as I could, when it came. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. This little SOB darting towards my bed. The horror! I’ve been in this situation numerous times. I’ve been in many a valiant fight against the vicious villainous creatures. When they engage, there is only one objective.
I had to slay the mighty beast.
The centipede is known for its incredible speed. I've been burned by these fuckers many times by trying to strategize; thinking what's the best approach to take it's nasty ass down. In a fight against this foe, thinking too much is your enemy. I grabbed the nearest shoe, leapt across the room, swung, and missed.
...
The fucker scurried into the corner. God, help me. The worst feeling in the world, is knowing it’s still there. Waiting… learning… watching. I now knew what pure terror felt like. I slept with one eye open that night. But it wasn't over! The centipede knows how to exploit your fears. It’ll wait for the precise moment, when you’ve forgotten all about it, and then BAM!
It’s three days later. I’m cleaning my room of the grotesque mess and junk that had accrued. I throw away a McDonalds’ bag. I pick a fortune cookie wrapper off the floor. I turn on the light. I reach for the coffee mug sitting on my desk. When, BAM!
I yank my head back, fearful of the gigantic centipede curled up in the bottom of the mug. The beastly thing started squirming from the light, but had trouble climbing back up the sides of the mug. I think it meant to crawl out and attack the bringer-of-the-light. So I flushed that bitch down the toilet. Fucker is lost to Davy Jones' Locker.
If that encounter isn’t sick enough, just imagine SEEING that ‘pede CRAWL into that mug. Like, that's some real terrain scaling: crawling up the side of the desk, traversing through the multitide of items that stood in it’s way, then up the side of the mug.
Once it got to the rim, I imagine it lost its footing(s) and tumbled head first into the mug. And hitting the bottom, its hard exoskeleton against the ceramic must have produced a pretty loud PING that would have been amplified inside the mug... like a trumpet.
So now they're fucking MUSICIANS.
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