Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Hey. So little to say, so much space to expontificate, lack of word score notwithstanding. So, I mean, nothing seems worth relating, everything appears to be worth to be kept close to the vest, as in, not being transmitted via the innernet to your eyes ears and throats, and, er, noses.
Ok now I’m gonna check my email. It’s fascination within itself is only rivaled by my inconsistent lack of feelings of adequacy towards and in regards to mentioning it. There, I said it. Dammitt, I know I’ll always regret it. And they say you regret the things you don’t do. They, whoever the hell they are, never read that sentence. They never even considered it. Bastards.
I don’t know quite how it happened, or, more accurately, at all how it happened, but I believe it has something to do with alleyways within neurons on top of blips of electrical impulses and currents and shit like that, but this review of a Mike Jones CD that I opined keyboardedly has turned into some kind of Mike Jones message board. It is where people come together in riotous laughter, regretful tears, and righteous anger to discuss and yearn anxiously for information on that pinnacle of hip hop yesteryear connectedness, Mike Jones. Again, his name is Mike Jones. Mike. Jones. You don’t know who he is? Let me slap you. And then me. And then you. Now you slap me. Ok, now I’ll slap you again.
Ok, I think we’re done.