tomorrow is Buy Nothing Day and i think i'm going to participate. i say think, only because my friend and i are going to knit scarves for the holidays, and we had planned to go out tomorrow to look at yarns. also, i wanted to get Kelly Osbourne's new record. she and Jack were on Mad TV last Saturday and she rocked ass. i also think she's shit hot fine, if you must know.

apparently America does not hold the monopoly on churning out self-hating, entitlement-addled pussies. this is my generation? are you fucking serious?

i'm going to start telling people i'm thirty-one.

Sarah, meanwhile, says that she can't begin to ponder the future. "That would involve making choices. And while having lots of options is lovely, it's even better when you don't have to choose between them yourself."

oh, good God.

so you're a dot-com moron, the company's gone bust, the economy's in the shitter and you're headed for the street. what to do?

personally, i'd suggest you kill yourself. you're never going to get over the shame of having to explain to people that you saw your first fat paycheck, went apeshit, ran out and bought a pre-fab suburb home, and it was all downhill from there. or the mortifying truth that the cleaning lady you hired to go with the house is now making more per hour than you are. or the knowledge that you're just plain... bloody useless.

or you could yank a crap retail job right out from under a poor unskilled stoodent. go for it. sure, it's $8 an hour if you're lucky-- but come on, everybody's doing it; it's cool! it's trendy, like that new White Chocolate Mocha at Starbucks. ahh-- the days when you could afford a $5 cup of coffee every morning before work... snap out of it! stay focused! survival is the wave of the future baby-- and we're on it! and by the way i've been waiting to be rung up for about ten minutes now, 'Net Boy! and no, i do not wish to save 10% and open an Express account, thanks.

you know what? my Gran told me to never judge anyone. she told me to never point, because when you point, you've got three fingers pointing back at you. she told me that what goes around comes around. but Gran also lived through the Depression, and had a billion and one highly entertaining stories about eating horsemeat, and adopting children left on the side of the road to die, and churning stolen cream in washtubs-- and i bet she wouldn't fault me one bit for saying this: i am laughing my ass off at you. right now.

and before you hurry up and get offended, notice i said "stoodent", not "student". i'm quite sure you can differentiate between the two:

students are humble folk who toil away their years in cramped, chock-a-block accomodations, relinquishing all but the most rudimentary personal space to strangers they may or may not be compatible with, four or more to a flourescent institutional bathroom and shower stalls that fairly reek of male masturbatory pleasure. they eat badly but by no means cheaply, and when or if they sleep, they sleep the slumber of the Damned-- doors banging open and closed all night, stereo systems, drug or alcohol-induced drama, gaming parties, noisy sexual relations. eventually they emerge from the light at the end of the tunnel, $50,000 in student loan debt, pick up the pieces and move on and try to make a life for themselves. utilizing the communal skills they forged while warehoused in educational servitude and employing such modern concepts as BASIC RESPECT and SELF-SUFFICENCY, they usually go on to make satisfactory friends, co-workers and productive citizens.

stoodents, on the other hand, are not destined to suffer the indignities of dorm life. they live at home, on the parents' dime-- or, alternatively, in an appropriately cute and Pier 1-furnished apartment set up and paid for by Parents. Parents have also provided Stoodent with an appropriate vehicle so that he/she will manage to get to skool on time: a Neon, usually, or in more affluent cases, a Toyota RAV4. to keep up appearances, Stoodent takes a 10 hr. a week McJob, the proceeds of which go directly to Dave Matthews's record company executives and Abercrombie & Fitch, Inc. exactly what Stoodent is "studying" to become is never quite clear. they usually attend schools with names such as "University of Southern-Western ___ (some state) at ____ (some town)", and are effectively wasting time until they can take a "year off" to "study" in "Europe". until then, they're quite content to make asses of themselves, blast their shitty music as loud as they like at any hour (hey, it's THEIR apartment), irritate the shit out of their Grown-Up neighbors and have bad, desperate, frantic, quick, fumbling Saturday-night-2am-the-bars-are-all-closed sex with as many ass-ugly, drunken peers as they can pick up.

that is all. now go out into the world and live to tell your grandchildren about it.

welcome to v3.0. i'm so proud of myself (and Firda) i could cry.

the dream journal has its own page now. in the attractive sidebar to your right you will find shitloads of useless content such as updated bookmarks, music links and a lyrics log that i ripped off from something John B. did a long time ago.

i liked the old layout. so why the change? because my Moon is in Gemini, and i'm a different person from minute to minute, and mentally restless, and i thought maybe this would accomodate me better. (or something-- i wrote it down somewhere.) in fact, i suggest you just go ahead and forget all about that old layout. it was Wal*Mart-- this is Target!

i just found out that Kthxbi is back. or maybe they never left. yayness.

I HAVE TO HAVE THIS. of course, no online superstore webpage could possibly do it justice.

also

P.S. That's not a real customer, invoice, or customer address up there ;-)

fuck me stupid. i was going to use that address to steal poor Mr. Jones's identity, go to his house, rape his wife with a strap-on, kick his dog, terrorize his children, steal all their jewelry and credit cards, procure SSNs at gunpoint, make crystal meth in their basement, buy cars and houses in their name, use the false invoice to infiltrate BigBold and wrest control from the hands of P Cooper, use it as a massive South American-based prostitution front, and finally go down with a spectacular police shootout in a flaming blaze of glory.