A Visitation
Hello world, I'm back. Back as one of the millions of people of legal drinking age, I must say that I now know the mundane existence that is life through an alcoholic haze. I think the absence of posts on this blog is paralleled by my gradual descent into being a square. By that I mean I'm entirely and utterly boring. How does one judge one's one level of interestingness, you may ask. Here is what I came up with:
1. Even ducks won't talk to me anymore
2. I find that I seem to not have a soul
3. Babies do NOT make me smile
4. BookTV is my favorite channel
5. I have an odd affinity for wicker
6. I refuse to listen to anything but Kenny G
7. I find Metamucil smoothies oddly delicious
8. Crocheting doilies is my main pastime
Oh yeah, it is that bad. So, if you are reading this blog you might as well discontinue your subscription. Its DEFINITELY going to start to get worse. Soon I'll be posting my best recipe for spam meatloaf and dialoguing my most recent trip to the grocery store. This is a downward spiral that is best associated with the descent of Chuck Norris's career. There won't even be any roundhouse kicks to pregnant women's faces to amuse you.
I'll start off by peering only slightly into the abyss. I'm moving AGAIN, this time to the glorious sprawling land of hipster that is Southeast Portland. There's a rumor of a heroin addict living next door, so I feel safe from the hipsters. Because we all know that while hipsters like to PRETEND they're from the street, yo, they are all very upper-middle class. They just can't handle stuff like the words "blood for dope" scrawled bravely across a lower piece of siding, actually in blood. Luckily, I'm made of tougher stuff. Besides, what better way to become a more interesting person (and therefore attracting more friends) than living next door to a dope fiend? Who wouldn't want to live next door to someone that is SO selfless that they give their very life's essence in payment for narcotics? I feel as though it will be an invaluable experience.
