Secret Shame
Before I dated Melissa I was single for four years. Here’s to four more!
I’m Losing My Edge
It’s only nine days until I turn 30. At that point I will be forced to do my closest impression of an adult. I could start wearing a tie again. I’ve been trying to write something about growing old all afternoon, but this is all that I could get down.
The only part of hangovers that I actually dislike is when my heart pounds and pounds.
Time to get my shit together and head off to Saint Cloud. I’m going to get revenge on my liver for some crimes that I will make up on the way. I don’t need justification.
A little advice
Everyone should punch me in the nuts when I do stupid things, like right now. Tomorrow will be too late, except for Paul, who got a raincheck.
Don’t worry, I’m fine
Despite a rambling and agitated email, I really am fine. I’m not at work any more, so table your requests to Radio K, or just send them directly to me. Okay, no one has any requests, and my rambling and agitated email probably just pissed off the recipient, so now the friendship that I had been trying to brew when it got interrupted by non-dateness is probably ruined too. Of course all my friends are like “she’s fucking crazy!”
Like I can point any fingers on that account.
Yours truly,
Ted
Computability
I was hoping to write a post about something tonight:
- Mix CDs that I have recently made or considered making
- The fiery hellmouth of the writing machine to which I feed my emotions in the hopes that it will excrete something entertaining for bharat
- More thoughts on having Renee in from Hawaii and Marsha married off, along with some context that explains why this is elevated (or lowered) beyond a simple wedding and reunion
- My heavily revised five-year-plan-to-get-a-date
- How knowing how someone else feels makes it a lot easier to know how I should respond, because otherwise I have a tendency to say really stupid things, but even then I have been known to crash around blindly in their china shop
This CSci 4011 homework is hammering away at my brain. I may never sleep again. That might be the Death From Above 1979 talking. WOW. I’m doing this last problem tomorrow.
Apparently, I have to find a new stalker
What does a guy have to do to get his name written on a piece of paper, inserted into a woman’s yoni, taken out the next day, partially burned, hung in the Southwest corner of a room, then buried with two cherries these days?
I wonder if I have burned all my bridges already, or if there are some that I missed.
Yours Truly
Who’s the hot blonde?
Dude, that’s my sister!
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Dear Google
I appear to be on page five of the results for “Jesse Mullan”. If you are going to index my web site infinite times each day, please put me back to number one.
ME ME ME ME.