Not actually
I’m not suicidal, I’m just teleologically advanced.
I’m not actually, I just wanted to make that joke. But if I do somehow die, I want my friends to go through my bookshelves and take what they like. Also, I want “nothing is written in stone” written on my tombstone.
Do not allow me get into my zone
I just really want to work the phrase “Do you know how many hot bitches I own?” into a conversation.
Canadian immigration policy
The more I study its history, the more interesting it becomes. Blacks were excluded because they were too lazy, and Asians because they worked too hard.
At least now it’s an all-for-himself fair criterion of money. Justice at last!
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
You know you’re watching a British movie when there isn’t a single explosion in a 2-hour spy movie.
Curse
I have just thought of the name “Georgia O’Queef” and now I must resist the urge to write bizarre fine arts- themed erotica.
Oh, my imagination is my curse. That or a perverse penchant for inappropriate puns.
Hospitalization
Being hospitalized has made me grow an even stronger appreciation for Canadian healthcare. That and for strong opiates.
Also I’m sure I’ve exposed my behind to more people than I would like. Or maybe I wanted them to see. Shhhh…
RIP
Christopher Hitchens, professional badass intellectual. What are we going to do without you calling bullshit on the liars of the world?
Literally literary
“then is it sin
To rush into the secret house of death,
Ere death dare come to us?”
I don’t know why, but this passage from Anthony and Cleopatra really struck me. The metaphor sounds so apt, so perfect in an indescribable way.
Sigh, I wish I were more eloquent. Or more aware of myself. Or not so prone to horrible puns. I guess we all have our wishes.
