UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu You are just a number to me! And that number is: PAGES UD MADE: My Books Page My Reviews Page My Reference Page My Music Page My Pictures My Store UD-RELATED PAGES: My LiveJournal My MySpace music page My Flickr page My del.icio.us page My Last.fm page My Amazon Wishlist HEAVY ROTATION Dan Deacon: Bromst Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavillion Bon Iver: For Emma, Forever Ago Vampire Weekend: Vampire Weekend Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes BLOGS ETC claude le monde nuncstans rock 'em stock 'em tomato nation postmodern drunkard tuckova 22 ghastly mess constintina total virility fuzzysquid drunken bee stacey nightmare elyse from ANTM stereolabrat dark side points jf_franklin 123 i love you READ NOW brotherhood 2.0 NOT BLOGS ETC qwantz (dinosaur comix) go fug yourself the burg cat and girl book of ratings married to the sea icanhascheezburger fire joe morgan fivethirtyeight.com READ NOW hospitality on parade WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2010 Jeremy Broomfield
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Monday, November 28, 2005
I am going fucking insane. I can feel my brain coming apart like a Droste chocolate orange. If you're curious just how BORING a process this really is, continue reading. All day I've been attempting to pay the bills I've been ignoring for more than a month, but I seem to be unable to do it. Not just apathetic or uninterested, but like Superman and Kryptonite repelled, weakened, sickened by the prospect of performing this essential, if unexciting grown-up task. Granted, there are a host of unusual complexities to this billing cycle, mostly because I moved and have yet to get some of the old bills out of my name. But fuck. Fuck. OH MY GOD THIS IS BORING. I can hear you clicking links to different sites -- you sound like a forest full of clicky little bugs. Or is it frogs who make that noise? I'm not talking about cicadas. Cicadas whirr. I like cicadas because some of them have a 17-year life cycle, and I just finished listening to my favorite song by Ratatat, which is called "17 Years."
My brain is coming apart but my back is coming together, its muscles contracting like a man whose fed-up wife put arsenic in his stew. My woolly beard has stopped itching, but my face is still playing host to the acne equivalent of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. The Kilo-Blemish Competition or something, where zits of many nations converge to see which group can completely conquer my face first; like its model, it is taking way too long and is a big letdown. I can't stop touching my face in horror, which in turn horrifies my dermatologist and anybody else who knows how dirty a New Yorker's hands get on a typical day just from brushing up against NY air. Oy fucking vey. Despite the ingestion of prodigious dosages of approved chemicals for the treatment of ADD, I can't concentrate for more than five minutes on anything that isn't shiny and moving around a lot. (Which brings me back to the bill-paying predicament, but only for a lousy one-liner. Look for it later in these parentheses. I need to sort out the bill situation so I can get money from my roommates to help pay the bills, because I can't cover them myself. See, I'm quite low on cash. Indeed, I'm... wait for it... I'm so broke I can't even pay attention!) Ugh. This is everyone's least favorite type of post, the self-pity post, the whining post, the nothing funny what the fuck post. (The whining post. Can you picture it? A battered four-by-four hammered into the dusty Texas ground, with iron rings hammered into it. The Whining Post. Feels like I'm tiiiieeeeddddd... to the whining post.) Great, now the word "whining" is starting to look all weird and misspelled. Well, at least I gave in to fate and mentally released myself from having to do that stuff with the bills, freeing me to write this garbage. Hooray. But don't fret. I'll be back soon with observations about the world, or, for a change of tone, maybe just a list of things that I like (here's a preview of the latter: cheap glow-in-the-dark makeup; gummi worms; X-acto knives; rubbing alcohol). This is the stupidest post EVER but fuck it, because it's done now and you can suck on it. 0 comments |
OTHER REVIEWS: Scrabble NEW! LATEST BOOK REVIEWS: The Game Moneyball One-Upsmanship Siddhartha You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) Now available! The Broomfield Variations CD ($10) or go to The UD Store
MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |