Talk More Junk But Won't Look My Way

I wanted to write a long, seething blog post in which I complain about my life, but I'm not going to do that today because:

a) It's boring for other people to read, I guess, and
b) I don't want to give these fuckers any more air time.

Suffice it to say that sometimes people really are out to get you. They really are only saying that to make you mad. They really are trying to get you to see who they're making out with because they want you to be jealous and want you to hate yourself. Look: I could go on my whole Buddha trip about forgiving everything forever. And I could also get all Psych 101 and figure out that really, deep down, he's not trying to hurt MY feelings, he just hates himself.

But y'know what? Fuck that. Haters are categorically jealous, boring and a total waste of time. They'll get theirs and I have no time for anything other than the swiftest, most hilarious revenge. Luckily I've so totally got it covered.

On that note, a guide on how to read my blog and thus interpret my personality:

I got my cello fixed over the weekend. It's been almost two years since I've played it: it's hard! Sunday night was Bobo's birthday party / science fair. I had a pretty great time. In fact, Jiddy and I had a really splendid time, arriving early at 9pm to drink a bottle of sake on her stoop. We had so much fun that by midnight, when the guests were still finally arriving, Jiddy and I had passed out in Bobo's bed, fully-clothed.

For some reason Tuesdays are really hard for me. I've tried to figure out why but I can't. Every Tuesday I have a near-identical panic attack about how awful I feel. Good thing I DJ on Tuesdays right after work. Nasser always gives me big fancy drinks. And I don't care how bad the day is, how broke you are, who you got dumped for, what kind of sprain you might have: there are few things in line that are not ameliorated by the combination of triple sec, gin, and Sarah Cracknell's voice.

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