I promised that I would blog today. Actually, I promised that I would blog every day, so I'm like two days late. Things have just been coming up so that I can't get online and blog. I'm sort of addicted. I feel closer connected to you people because talking in writing is so much different from talking talking. Sound and crap. I dunno. I like this better. Maybe I'm just antisocial. I also promised I'd go on Two Towers more often. Sooorrry, Azzie. :( Sorry, sorry. I have to go eat dinner and then do kung fu. So this is my filler blog.

I just found Jen's journal. I just linked to it. I feel guilty, because she's been linked to me for a long time now. My fairy name is stupid. But. Andrew P is "Gossamer Pepperweb". BTW, whenever I comment, I have this urge to type in my internet handle, not my real name. I must spend too much time online.

I'm reading my blogs again. Apparently, I do all of my blogging at 4 in the afternoon.

I added a comment engine, like Alex said. I'm his smiling cupid slave. Without the fans, and wearing clothes. I wish html were easier. I mean, it's already obscenely easy, but since I'm the consumer, I demand the universe revolve around me, and make everything easy. I just figured out why I wasn't getting any comments. Yes. I am slow.

I'm sorry! So sorry! For not updating enough. I'm incredibly outblogged, now that I have to keep up with everyone else's blog. It's worse than keeping track of one message board all the time. I'll have to wear a hair shirt to convey my penance. And lend this passage a quality of ominous power. No. Haha, Alex, you suck. I did my "original narrative' during physics, AND I got to go to the art gallery. You suck, you shoulda been there. No, I wasn't the girly who poked Raphael's "Madonna and Child." I wish. It was hella fun. Some of the pictures seemed to be glowing and crap. Like, there was this picture of two teenage girls in a window waving, so it was like me and Janis looking at them waving at us looking at them waving at us. That was great. And this one of a random canal in Venice. Kick... ass... art... *drool*. I want to be a homeless bum in the National Gallery. So that when I ask people for a dime or something, I can be like, "Hey, this is my house!" and show them the fountain with the bronze Hermes on it and my little tropical flower garden and my splendid "living room" with the oak writing desk and comfy chairs and various pompous portraits and an electric chandelier on a chain, and my kickass "private gallery" with the only Da Vinci in the western hemisphere. And I could subsist on cafeteria food and t-shirts with Monet and Whistler on them. I could be the world's most educated bum ever. Ayn Rand would hate me. I have no ambition whatsoever. Except to learn as much about world cultures as I possibly can. You know, like National Geographic stuff. I, unlike you ignorant heathens, actually read the articles. Joy. Plus, I got a nice 'peanut butter ghost' from some guy outside the art gallery for taking a survey. Rock on.

Atlas Shrugged is too damn long. I'm like 300 pages into it and dying already. I need a good, banal 'intermission novelet'. I could watch 'The Black Knight' when it comes out. It's about some guy from the Hood who gets sent to England in the 14th century. Mr. Thomas would DIE if he saw the trailer. It looks totally retarded. So I have to see it. "WHO BE YE???" "Who be I??? You be DEAD if you touch me again!" It's really banal. I don't feel like being philosophical. I argue too damn much as it is.

PS: Is it just me or does Mr. Gaffney look REALLY retarded with a mustache?
PPS: Nick, you must be in a better mood tomorrow. Or I shall be forced to backfist you again. Repeatedly. Guacup!!! Chingpao!!! I'm too lazy to slap you.