"And you say it doesn't matter, but I want to scream it does."
--O! What a Dream It Was, Future Bible Heroes

Goddamnit. GOD FUCKING DAMNIT. I finally got the pictures from Rocky, and they're the blurriest, most out-of-focus, misframed pieces of crap I've ever had the misfortune to be in. And just in case you were wondering, I have recieved word zero from this girl since I wrote her. These two facts lead me to believe that I hate you all. So, the pics are here and here.

Ok, ok, ranting over... no. Wait. I almost forgot.

Harry Potter. HARRY MOTHERFUCKING POTTER. Now, don't get me wrong, I liked the movie. I like the concept. I'm going to read the books. But I hate Harry Potter as a human being. I hate him with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, a hatred the likes of which the world has never known, nor shall ever know again. This article can explain it better than I can, as it also brings in evidence from the stuff I haven't gotten to yet. Eric Cartman thinks that Harry Potter is a pussy, lending further veracity to my argument. The only joy that Harry Potter has ever brought me stem from these three comics.

Deep breath. I'm ok. Right. It's been a while since I updated, but that's because jackshit has been happening lately. So this is gonna be snippets of semi-random crap. This weekend you should get something like four new poems, since I was supposed to have written a bunch of stuff for my class and deadlines are coming due. Speaking of poetry, Taste is going to be in the next American Literary when it comes out. There's also going to be a few lines from Five Thoughts on the Nature of Dancing because they really liked it but couldn't fit the whole thing. Go me. I had to write a little bio for myself, and this is what I wound up with, after exactly one-half of a revision:
Headquartered in NYC, Justin is an amateur cat, professional wanderer, and poet-for-hire. He bears a third degree black belt in both sleeping and bad 80s music, and is studying to be a private investigator and/or ninja.

I had trouble getting the clothing that had fallen behind the bed - I couldn't reach with the handcuffs on. This is not for any good reason. I was wearing the handcuffs as a bracelet, and they just wouldn't fit. It just sounded for a moment like I was getting to use them correctly, is all.

Deanna and I came up with an interesting theory a little while ago regarding the use of italics and bold in print. Prompting this discussion was the fact that guys have the ability to reformat any statement by a female to the following format: "I'd like to blank her blank." For example,
Female: "I need to get my car fixed."
Male: "I'd like to fix her car."
Meaning of course, that he would like to have sex with her. The italics are extremely important, as the following example dictates.
"I'd like to order her a pizza" v. "I'd like to order her a pizza."
The former is very obviously an expression of the desire to fuck, while the latter clearly expresses your desire to share the wonders of Italian cuisine with someone who merely happens to be of the opposite sex.

The conclusion is that italic text denotes sly sexual connotation. Slimy, if you will. Anytime that someone uses italics, under any circumstance, they're being slimy. No exceptions. You can read back through my previous entries to check this, but I assure you that it's true. Guess that means I'm slimy a lot, but you already knew that.

But where does the bold text fit in? Very simple - how else can you talk about the incredibly obvious stuff? Final example:
Male 1: "I'd like to file her taxes."
Male 2: "Yeah... and I'd like to fuck her in the ass"

Let that be a lesson to you.

On a final note, Chris is funny when he's drunk, enlightening us about the "seven shots between life and antiquity," and telling us to go to sleep and stop laughing at him. He typed this:
ik'm an unstable benerabl g the thus do un berenber ssht[t

And then there was a riot.

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