Blog Death

I don't anticipate posting to this with any regular frequency in the upcoming months, thanks to my attempt to focus on studying for some arbitrary test. Think of it as a quarter beat rest in the composition that is my life. As the saying goes: I'll see you on the other side. Adios.

Foot Fetish

I have heinous feet and toes. I would be willing to bet you do too. I think that shoe salesman job during college scarred me permanently because I can no longer look at them. Some resemble meat hooks; others resemble long piano-like fingers. Some are stubby and others bring to mind little pigs in a blanket. Few things on Earth make me as ill as looking at a woman’s feet and toes as she enters the train. For some unknown reason after the month of May, women are required to wear sandals, flip-flops, and open-toed shoes. They are unseemly! Don’t get me wrong; there are some nice feet in the world but they don’t travel the subways in Gotham. Most of them are so disgusting that you get ill when you look at those little aliens hanging over the side of the shoe touching the filthy ground, but like a car crash I cannot divert my eyes. I’m getting nauseated just thinking about it. My gag reflex would appreciate it if autumn would hurry along and cover those mutants in boots.

Baffling Bullsh*t

Your blog is slightly more tolerable than mine; mine is the gum that you step in during your walk to the subway. I won't be fooled! I refuse to be baffled by your bullsh*t. It may have worked at that small New England University, where you were a journalism major, but I can't stand reading it anymore. It's sloppy. I know you think you're being creative but the result is superfluous, loud, and void of substance. Try being concise. Try saying what you mean. You have cleverly disguised countless run-ons, incorrect comma and semicolon usage, and excessive exclamation points with allusions to old scotch and typing in your bed. I'm no better. Despite claiming that our relationship is over, I'm compelled to read you. You're like the Real World for me. Damn it. I hate you and the grip you have over me.

Pet Rock

Some brilliant business man, and I use the phrase generously, placed a bunch of rocks in a box and sold them as Pet Rocks. The sale of many of these pets proved once again that people hate money and are willing to part ways with it. If your money burdens you, give it to me. Easy enough.

7 Train

John Rocker's disparaging remarks, while grotesque and deplorable, were not entirely inaccurate.

Still Life

There's something heartbreakingly beautiful about fruit set on a table top, or even in a bowl, depicted on canvas unveiling imperfections and discolorations. Don't even mention flowers in a vase...Oh, how you mock me Vincent, with those sunflowers teasing and reminding me that it's summertime.

Some People

...get so uncomfortably lucky that it suffocates me. These are the people that hit the genetic lottery. I'm not talking about people birthed with Brad Pitt or Megan Fox looks. I'm referring to the super mediocre human beings that have no outstanding traits aside from being birthed by uber-wealthy parents. They are neither a liability nor source of pride to their parents; they just are. It could be disastrous; they could be like Michael Douglas's son. They usually wander through life with a menial job and barely noticeable social skills. Then the fateful day comes, which is simultaneously the most tragic and financially liberating day of their lives, when their parents die. Instantly their normal lives are transformed into those of lottery winners. I can't really fault them for never really knowing how much their family had socked away over the years, or maybe they veiled their riches with their choice of occupation. The end result is the million dollar apartment, paid for in cash, located on 57th and Park. Excuse me, I don't think I can continue writing this entry. I need to go to the restroom to battle this involuntary sickness that's suddenly come upon me.