Thursday, September 26, 2002
And the moral of this story would be….uh…um…
I blame my mother. But then again, who doesn’t?
It was a Google search on her name that brought family to my little site. I think she’s trying to have a little fun. Touched by an Angel? Uh, more like Bitch-Slapped, thank you.
So. (awkward silence that stretches on for a few hours)
So this happens a couple of weeks before I’m supposed to visit the father figure (which reminds me, if you want to show me all the scary places in D.C. from October 16-20th, let me know) so it’s like all fateful and shit.
I’ve grown accustomed to dishing out the junk in my cortex here, and now, well, there’s an urge to codify all my language and speak in fable-ese. (Secret Agent Fuzzy Kitten aka Pop-n-Lock Deep House Dancer here, you must enter your ID and password to access this campfire. Press fingerprint to screen NOW)
MUST FIGHT .MUST BREAK FREE MUST SAVE WORLD ARGH
In other words, my normal clarity of language may be slow coming. But it’s been helped along by you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, you, and you. Who needs a thousand points of light? You got me lit like a Christmas tree.
