not-so-daily pic

She weaves secrets in her hair
The whispers are not hers to share
She's deep as a well
She's deep as a well

Another day wastes away
And my heart sinks with the sun
A new day's dawning
And a new day has not yet begun

So, anyway
There I was
Just sitting on your porch
Drinking in your sweetest decline
Your sweetest decline

What's the use in regrets
They're just thing we haven't done yet
What are regrets?
They're just lessons we haven't learned yet

Another day draws away
And my heart sinks with the sun
It's like catching snow on my tongue
It's like catching snow on my tongue

So, anyway
There I was
Just sitting on your porch
Drink in your sweetest decline
The sweetest decline

What are regrets?
What are regrets?
They're just lessons we haven't learned yet
It's like catching snow on your tongue
You can't pin this butterfly down

Can't pin this butterfly down

-Beth Orton, "Sweet Decline"

Validate its existence.

Sites Outside the Site

cleaning house
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
03:18 p.m.
I updated Shutter to Think. I added the last two galleries (1, 2), got rid of that Leftovers gallery which was suffering from Red X syndrome and archived a bunch of my webcam shots, some of which never made it onto the front page. As is apparent, I love me.

And thanks to my sweetheart mother, the photos will be a-plenty in the upcoming year, and of much higher quality. The Mom is getting me this camera for Christmas. How fucking cool is that?

Discuss | 4 comments

To Whom it May Concern:
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
12:25 p.m.
My girl readymade proposed this gem of a cover letter to send to prospective employers:

Please consider my application for the position of ______. From my résumé (attached) you will see that I have had extensive experience consuming huge quantities of alcoholic beverages.

During this work, much of my time was spent smoking crack, which allowed me to make the most of my conniving and sinister attitude. As a candidate blessed with a drooling problem, I have never enjoyed working with people and instead spent most of my time eating glue from the supply cabinet.

I am a slob and rarely arrive to work on time. My previous employment required me to protect my cubicle from possible Cuban invasion and document the progress of my daily napping patterns. Administrative duties, I realize now, are performed better when sleeping. I have firsthand experience in sledgehammers of all shapes and sizes, which were the essential tools for my job.

I respond dubiously to new tasks and challenges and value little variation in my work. An opportunity to convince you that a lazy-boy would be a good purchase for my new office within such a gutless company as yours would be met with my utmost dedication and diligence.

My best to your therapist,

Yours, readymade

Print, sign and send!

Discuss | 1 comment

one, two, three
Monday, December 9, 2002
12:21 p.m.
Editor/Writer needed to coordinate magazine, newsletter and interactive media for non-profit group. Will also help develop public education material. Top pay and benefits. Journalism/PR degree and strong research skills required. Photography and internet skills a plus.

Publications Specialist Responsible for coordinating and distribution of ad materials for weekly magazine production. Duties include graphics files downloading and printing, proofreading and editing copy, copywriting, layout and some creative design.

Reporter Progressive newspaper company with award winning daily and weekly newspapers across TN seeks general assignment reporter to cover government meetings, human interest stories at Middle TN newspaper.

Cross fingers, please.

Discuss | 9 comments

some people think it sucks, but this people also likes Steve Vai
Sunday, December 8, 2002
04:42 p.m.
Something about the simplicity and absurdity of Toothpaste for Dinner makes me laugh. Not out loud; not like that. But on the inside...just a little bit.

Especially inside-funny ones:

the alarm clock
peanut butter hat
perfect teeth
not a step

Discuss | 4 comments

Sunday, December 8, 2002
03:24 a.m.
I like to dump all my mp3s into the player and hit shuffle. I love the abruptness of the random mix, the rollercoaster of moods, the unexpectedness of it all. Like a little suprise every 5 minutes or so.

Here was the playlist on a very early Sunday morning, winding down after work:

Action Figure Party-Action Figure Party
Magnetic Fields-A Pretty Girl is Like...
Garbage-Waiting (Drum and Bass Remix)
Jimmy Scott-But Beautiful
Missy Elliott (feat. Nelly Furtado)-Get Your Freak On (Remix)
Angelo Badalamenti-Audrey's Dance
Tracy Chapman-Fast Car
Saul Williams-Penny for a Thought
Kind of Like Spitting-All Else Failed
Angelo Badalamenti-A Real Indication
Patty Griffin-Tomorrow Night
Tori Amos-Lust
Bill Withers-Use Me
The Faint-Worked Up So Sexual
Fiona Apple-Get Gone

Discuss | 3 comments

nine long hours
Sunday, December 8, 2002
01:10 a.m.
We were busy tonight. It is state tournament time for high school football, and they are playing at MTSU, just down the road. That put us on a 100-minute wait for a solid 6 hours.
Do you know how busy that is?

I will tell you.

That is so busy that walking through the dining room is like running an obstacle course. Carrying 200 dollars worth of wine on a tray on your hand above your head because guests are three deep at the bar and all those people are wearing their warmest, fluffiest UT parkas.

That is so busy that were a single customer to wander into the kitchen they might pass out on sight at the atrocisty they behold. Shit is fucking everywhere. Lemon fall from the iced tea? Fuck it. Too busy. There are splats of BBQ on walls from dropped dishes. French fries, mushrooms, shreds of cheese, globs of butter, a whole loaf of bread, croutons, paper towels, ice, slips of paper litter the ground and no one can fathom the luxury of having time to pick up a broom. Hell, there isn't time to piss.

That is so busy that when people try to bully their way to the head of the waiting list, my generally docile manager snaps back, "The longer we have this conversation, sir, the longer you'll be waiting for a table."

That is so busy that I contemplated burning the bitch standing in front of Table 47 with a bowl of piping hot French Onion soup who was ignoring my "excuse me"s by way of smoking with grand, exaggerated gestures, holding the cigarette over her pointy, vapid head.

Feet hurt. Head pounds. Deflated.

Waiting tables is hard.

Discuss | 8 comments

book writing
Thursday, December 5, 2002
02:51 p.m.
I bought a little eggplant-colored leather journal from the bookstore. I haven't had such a thing since Christ was a child (thanks, Mom, for that phrase) and even then not really. I have never been much of a diary keeper. I mean, this blog is sort of like a diary except made public and a complete pack of lies. And the prose here is tainted, censored. I know you're gonna have your eyeballs on the assortment of letters I've picked out, questioning or forgetting them, perhaps discussing them further.

So, I brought home the modestly-sized journal, with lined cream-colored paper to write honestly and freely without the element of a reader, to record ideas for the unstaged plays in my head, to get down the somewhat droll dialogue I've thunk up to be included elsewhere later, to explore further the fragments of my dreams. Nearly everything I write currently is typed into this box, quickly, and with the aide of online thesauruses and spell checkers and dictionaries. I look forward to remembering the slopes of my 'p's, the crosses of my 't's, finding a pace for my brain that matches my pen. I look forward to the secrets I may divulge at the thought of no one seeing, and the discovery of self that may inadvertantly follow.

Who am I when no one is looking?

Discuss | 5 comments

yes! wait...nope.
Wednesday, December 4, 2002
04:03 p.m.
Healthy Choice's Sweet and Sour Chicken is almost exactly as tasty as the real thing. Except not the least little bit.

[The posts have been short here of late, but for those who prefer them, the long, rambling, more incoherent posts are a-comin'. I feel the bullshit rising up within me.]

Discuss | 6 comments

Wednesday, December 4, 2002
12:58 p.m.
My sister's current roommate and best friend since childhood works at one of the largest drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers in Tennessee where, she tells me, there lives a dog. His name is Relapse.

* * *

And by way of Miss Grainne, this person is better than your kids.

Discuss | 2 comments

brother, can you spare a square?
Sunday, December 1, 2002
07:08 p.m.
You know you are poor when you consider waiting to pee until you get to the coffee shop, so as not to use up more of your final and waning roll of toilet tissue.

* * *

I know how Suzanne Vega says it, but I wanna know about you. Do you pronounce "caramel" care-a-mel or kar-a-mel?

Your pronouncation here, or you can wax philosophical about my pee. | 11 comments

may I just say?
Saturday, November 30, 2002
03:50 p.m.
Shit damn fuck, fuckitty fuck goddammit to hell motherfucker ass bastard son of a bitch, fuck!

(Things aren't going well for me today.)

Say something, motherfucker, I dare you. | 9 comments

My favorite line from Rebecca
Saturday, November 30, 2002
03:01 a.m.
"Please don't call me Mr. de Winter. I've a very impressive array of first names, George Fortescu Maximilian, but you needn't bother with them all at once. My family called me Maxim. And another thing, please promise me never to wear black satin or pearls, or to be thirty-six years old."

Discuss | 1 comment

Saturday, November 30, 2002
02:53 a.m.
I always note, in film or on television, when characters order coffee or dinner then leave the scene directly thereafter, notifying no one. I hate that.

Discuss | no comments

I want to have, like, ten thousand of his babies.
Friday, November 29, 2002
12:57 p.m.
David Cross writes a column for Vice Magazine funnier than anything else you'll read all day. Bookmark these and come back to them if you have to. [via MetaFilter]

Seems you can’t walk 20 feet without seeing some variation of the flag waving around, all up in a brother’s face, being all flaggy and shit.

You’re an annoying, ironically trendy-while-being-anti-trend douchebag with absolutely no logical argument against cell phones or computers or anything that Ned Ludd hates.

Craig comes over. He is wearing Ray Bans and a way oversized Triple Five Soul hoodie. His pants have twelve of those dangly straps that look like they are used for S&M tryouts.

Human beings who are the products of a confounding, medieval, intolerant religion based on superstitious nonsense and hearsay that tolerates no dissent and is so proudly out of step with even the most basic tenets of modern civilized thought that it all seems to resemble a game of Magic: The Gathering gone awry.

I was sobbing in great heaving waves, the tears blurring my vision. “Listen to me! Every one of you glorious idiots! Here’s the answer: free make-your-own-sundae bars!!”

Discuss | 8 comments

lesson learned
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
12:49 p.m.
No matter how quick the attack, best to remove the eyelash curler before coughing.

Discuss | 4 comments

all Lynch, all the time
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
06:35 p.m.
An essay deconstructing David Lynch's one-minute advertisement for the PS2, "The Third Place".

David Foster Wallace on David Lynch, whom he finds "grandly admirable and sort of nuts."

Rebecca Paiva's "The Lynch Film" attempts to classify his works as a genre by exploring recurring themes (Smoke and Fire, Electricity, Red Drapes, Dogs & Trains).

My favorite classic film of all time eaxmined in association with my favoite director, dead or alive, in "Lost Highway: Unveiling Cinema's Yellow Brick Road".

Lynch the Photographer

[Brought to you by the immeasurable City of Absurdity]

Discuss | 1 comment

gently with a shovel
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
06:11 p.m.
Susanna Kaysen on my favorite scene from P.T. Anderson's latest, Punch-Drunk Love:

“The opening was such a dystopic vision of America, everything loathsome and horrible,” says Kaysen the next morning, talking by phone after letting the movie gel a while in her brain. Remember the one sex scene? When they’re in bed and she says, ‘I want to bite your cheek,’ and he says, ‘I want to smash your face in with a shovel,’ then she wants to suck out his eyeballs or something. I watched that scene and thought, ‘This is fantastic! These people are both totally psychotic and somehow, they’ve found each other! They’re not going to do these things, of course, but they are fantasies of engulfing and absorbing the other, completely eating one another up, articulating very well the feelings that lovers have about each other at the beginning of a relationship. I thought it was great that these two infuriated, enraged, crazy, nutty people can indulge their cannibalism fantasies with one another in bed!”

Discuss | 1 comment

Monday, November 25, 2002
02:45 a.m.
Many of you may have seen this before, but still, Ha!

Discuss | 5 comments

moving up--or at least to the right
Monday, November 25, 2002
01:39 a.m.
Tuesday I'll be applying at Morton's, F. Scott's and Sunset Grill, all of which are hiring servers with 3 years experience and wine knowledge. Check and check.

Any of you in the Nashville area with inside information on any of these spots (How much business does each restaurant do? Know anyone else who's worked there? Have you heard anything about the owners/management?), please let me know.

The story here is I'm so ridiculously bored with my current job that it is making me crazy. Even if I can't find a day-job in my field currently, I at least want something new and challenging. Fine dining seems the perfect way to earn much needed cash, keep on my toes and meet new people until I can acquire the means to move out of state.

Very exciting.

Discuss | no comments

ponder the pasties
Sunday, November 24, 2002
03:43 p.m.
I'm not the marrying type, but should I ever find myself on the verge of matrimony I'd be heartbroken if my lifepartner-to-be requested a stripper to send him off. In fact, it may make me reconsider. Men and women alike argue the harmless fun of renting someone to get naked and writhe on you, but in its basest form, I sort of consider it cheating. I mean, you want some girl--a girl of your choosing--to push her tits around in front of you and rub ferociously on your crotch for 10 minutes? Okay, sure you want that, but how is this justified as anything other than cheating?

This stripper briefly describes the sorts of men who make up her clientele, and she doesn't paint a pretty picture. She writes vividly about her patrons, in too few words, describing them as pathetic, deluded droolers. While I take no issue with women who strip for a living (actually, the profession rather fascinates me) I have to wonder who are these men who, as she puts it, "forget for a moment that they are paying me to pretend to like them"? All I know is, they are everywhere.

Your thoughts | 10 comments

eleven ounces?!
Sunday, November 24, 2002
03:29 p.m.
The Herald Tribune published a very interesting piece about Irvin Rosenfeld, a stockbroker who suffers from a rare condition that causes excruciating tumors to form on his bones, who has been legally smoking 11 ounces of marijuana every month for twenty years, free of charge. And provided to him by Uncle Sam.

Discuss | 1 comment

I like...
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
02:25 p.m.
crumpling up shiny, expensive pieces of stationary or wrapping
waking up to find hours before the alarm goes off
slipping into tightly tucked sheets
grape bubble gum, the kind others can smell
being the only person at the movie theatre
selecting incense
popping my eyelid by pulling it away from my eyeball quickly
trips to the video store
buttery, rich red wine
making deep creases in the spines of books
leaves in flight
that Justin Timberlake song, "Limber"
boys in sweaters
to constantly improve my penmanship
fresh, empty journals
the squeak of markers
secretly saving my fortunes from the cookies
a certain monkey
the smell of petroleum
sidelong glances stolen on interstate highways
songs sung by women
the scent of babies' skin
washing my hands vigorously with piles of salt and soap
boys in glasses
the sound of footsteps on film or television
Ben Folds
the clink of a cup on a saucer
the brush of a cat
the word 'lick'
coins smooth under my fingers
the sound of scissors cutting through wet hair
fishnet hosiery with seams up the back
emptying out a pumpkin

You like... | 10 comments

David's got a girlfriend and he is naming CDs after her
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
09:35 p.m.
David Cross was interviewed by Nerve magazine as promotion for his new comedy CD "Shut Up You Fucking Baby!" which I want to have very much. Even though I'm a bit hurt he didn't wait for me after our exchange at the club back in the summer. I could tell he could feel it too. He scooted over a couple of inches when I hopped up beside him, but that was because he couldn't handle the electricity. I just know it.

Discuss | no comments

the future is outside before her
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
01:45 p.m.
Is it possible that she had no possessions?
Or that things are not valuable to her in the same way they are to us?
She seemed like this wild child bouncing around on stage, not quite believing we were all there to see her. She wants to make bracelets with her mom to sell at the market. She lives with a family of seven in the downstairs portion of the house we are renting.
The day I met her she was wearing a simple red and white dress.
She seemed like a nice girl and she smiled a lot.

Discuss | no comments

I hope this time next year not to be here
Monday, November 18, 2002
11:41 p.m.
Downtown Nashville this afternoon, under Chicago-style winds.

[Click any photo for the gallery.]

Discuss | no comments

Sunday, November 17, 2002
10:35 p.m.
My stepmom's father died, the funeral is in the morning and I'm worried sick I may be canned for not asking to take coffee home from work.

Discuss | 1 comment

my first one
Sunday, November 17, 2002
01:06 p.m.
It was minute 28. I'd set it for two levels higher than I'd done in the past and for 10 extra minutes. I'd forgone the gym for more than a month and was ready to jump back in, feet first. I was going to kick the elliptical trainer's ass. I didn't put on my headphones this time since the Y staff was blaring pumping house music rather than the contemporary Christian stuff they usually play.

See, I hate working out. I just don't like it. Never been a big fan of the whole pain thing, and doing 50 crunches and lifting weights and running hurts. It hurts me. I am totally a sitting down kind of gal. Yet, I know what is good for me--emotionally and for my ass--so I do it. With a pout, but I do it.

Well, Friday afternoon, on the trainer, at the half hour mark I got it. The elusive runner's high. I thought for sure that shit was myth. Instead, to the thumping beat of disco house, beside the profusely sweaty dude in outrageously tall white tube socks, beneath a television tuned to some Animal Planet show featuring a woman and a shivering dog and their love affair (I can't imagine why else the lady in the white coat had not one, but two fingers in that little yellow dog's ass), I reached a sort of physical enlightenment. It was euphoria. I closed my eyes and smiled when I couldn't feel my limbs any longer. It felt as though I were being propelled through space if I kept my eyes shut. The rush lasted for a couple of minutes at which time I opened my eyes to be sure I wasn't being stared at by the people I was confident could hear the adrenaline moving through my veins.

I can't wait to get back to the gym.

Discuss | 3 comments

random venom
Sunday, November 17, 2002
01:27 a.m.
I hate that Jennifer Love Hewitt song. That "Barenaked" song. I fucking hate it. It makes me want to slap my momma. Better yet, your momma. It makes me want to slap your momma.

Discuss | 18 comments

damn crackheads
Saturday, November 16, 2002
10:17 p.m.
When I went for my delusional, you-too-can-be-a-writer-in-NY jaunt to Brooklyn (Williamsburg, specifically) to check on an available apartment I got drunk every day while there, but I didn't touch the drugs. Even though they were everywhere. Every. Where.

Had the pot been aplenty like it was while vacationing in Berkeley two years ago--where couples shared joints openly on the Haight and seriously odorous entrepreneurs offered "sticky green buds" in my ear as I ducked into shops (my head snap/jaw drop reaction only solicited more offers, I quickly learned)--this entry would be reading altogether differently. But nope, not a stem or seed to be found in the entire borough, or so it would seem. Had I had an interest in cocaine, however, I would have been in the fucking house. I mean, it was Christmas in July, folks. And I'm no lacy-pantied Southern belle, neither--it isn't as though I'd never seen the stuff, even from a half-straw's distance, but shit. People were doing lines off toilets at this art party. Every single person I met who was introduced to me by the friend I was visiting mentioned cocaine in at least some context. Most often along the lines of "Break out the blow." Now, I understand cocaine's appeal, but I'd rather not be nervous, bored and grinding my teeth, feinding vacant-eyed in wait for someone to suggest the next bump. My idea of throwing down does not invlove shelling out $100 on some shit that will make me hate whoever is nearest me with fervor and conviction when the powder runs out. I like not to be raised up off the couch by my heartbeat.

The hipsters in Williamsburg though heartily disagree and have moved on to a cheaper, chic-er version of the same stuff, in rock form. Pot is fucking dead as dead. But crack is back in a real big way.

Discuss | 3 comments

kaf's the coolest
Saturday, November 16, 2002
02:58 a.m.

Ha ha ha.

Discuss | 2 comments

worth a thousand words
Thursday, November 14, 2002
06:57 p.m.
How I spent my morning:

[Illustrated by dong_resin, his palette the Draw option in NetMeeting]

Discuss | 6 comments

Twelve Reasons Why Edgeling Kicks Ass:
Thursday, November 14, 2002
06:11 p.m.
-'cause he dressed as a skinhead Nazi on Halloween and didn't quite get why people were so upset. "It is Halloween, this is as scary as it gets."
-'cause he is the most imaginative person I know
-'cause his nickname at work is Rainman, and he likes it
-he is one of those hyper-intelligent kids who confounds most folks
-'cause he names his journal entries things like Good Weather for Airstrikes and Hitchy-Koo.....and Uvula Irregularity and I'll do some Drugs and name them after you
-'cause he likes chubby chicks
-'cause he's an ardent feminist
-'cause he drinks 40s
-'cause daily, consistently he writes such neat things as i'm Donna Hayward as a guy. Not Laura Palmer... and He walked with poise through the wreckage. Over corpses. He talked to me calmly. And wanted to teach me things. and if you'll excuse me, i'm off to look up 'myxomatosis' in the dictionary. i sure hope it's there.
-'cause his journal is a candid tableau of intellect, passion, wit and whimsy
-'cause he leaves funny messages and drawings on the dry-erase boards at work, for instance The Mighty Mighty Bosstones are neither Mighty, nor Mighty
-'cause he made me this, belatedly, for my birthday

Discuss | 3 comments

Wednesday, November 13, 2002
01:58 p.m.
I saw a really, really good movie. I saw The Good Girl at this crappy six-screen theatre here in town that, starting this week, is playing two films (also One Hour Photo) only previously showing in Nashville. I chose The Good Girl because I knew very little about it, but had quietly heard consistently positive things.

The Good Girl is a portrait of stagnant lives in flux--changing, yet never changing--and the secret powers that lie in denial and inertia. It is about Justine (Jennifer Aniston), a woman put-upon by society, who does free makeovers at Retail Rodeo, whose face is heavy, whose voice never rises or falls, who is married to a pothead painter. It is about the miracles that seem possible when you are down and out and Jake Gyllenhaal looks sad-eyed and pouting in your direction.

Beautiful, beautiful Gyllenhaal plays Holden, with equal parts abandon and pure sex, a writer, whose "slave name" is Tom. He starts working at the Retail Rodeo, keeping mostly to himself, reading "Catcher in the Rye", and inciting the interest of one underappreciated makeover clerk. He is 22, she is 30, and they have little more in common than pheremonal lust and hatred for the world, yet it is more than enough.

The film is grainy, unpolished and the direction almost invisible, which is hard to come across of late. The director skillfully allows the frank and often funny screenplay to unfold itself and permits his entirely capable cast of animating these richly layered characters, unbound by any trickery. It is a character play that, in all honesty seems somewhat unremarkable on the surface, but leaves marks on your mind for reasons you can't quite finger, and keeps you wondering about what might have truly been going in the minds of these people you feel fortunate to have met.

The Good Girl is a slice-of-life film where the answers to important questions are as intangible as in this real life. It is about, ultimately, not why but how.

Discuss | 5 comments

my bad
Monday, November 11, 2002
05:20 p.m.
I just pissed off four, very hard-working, non-English speaking gentleman during my afternoon jog down East College St. I didn't understand much of what they screamed at me, but I think it has something to do with fixing the footprint now embedded in not-quite-yet dry cement.

Discuss | 4 comments

i was pumping gas
Monday, November 11, 2002
04:34 p.m.
On my left was the moon, stuffed tight between muted purple clouds, on my right silver-lined white tufts masking the retiring sun in a rapidly-darkening sky and in the middle a perfectly vertical rainbow, fat and short, dividing the day.

Tornados leave beauty, too, in their wake.

Discuss | no comments

before they fall down
Sunday, November 10, 2002
05:06 p.m.

I went for a walk.

[Click any photo for the gallery.]

Discuss | 5 comments

Sunday, November 10, 2002
04:56 p.m.
dong resin: you have a jack in the box?
me: yup, lots
dong resin: they seem...short bus
me: no no, just misunderstood
dong resin: right, right
me: i like their commercials
dong resin: I don't know. I don't trust places with fucking clowns
me: right, but see it is a mocking sort of anti-clown, which is cool
dong resin: I doubt their ablity to be mocking
me: not ronald, he's a pussy, jack is badass
dong resin: I H8 ronald..I H8ed him worse as wee youngn'
dong resin: seemed reeeeeeal gay to be surrounded by kids like that
dong resin: I liked the "burger king". remember him? had a beard?
me: i liked that purple thing, what was its name?
dong resin: grimace
me: yeah, grimace
me: grimace is cool
dong resin: I like grimace `cause I didn't know what the fuck he was, and neither did the people who created him, I like that in a corporate icon
dong resin: there's a whole fucking design team and some animate purple stuff is what they come up with
dong resin: "what is this bob?"
dong resin: "fuck if I know, dave. call it a grimace."

Discuss | 4 comments


shutter to think: photos
currently reading
suggest reading
recommend a movie

will work for ______

resume (hire me!)


aim: miscetcmiscetc (often)
icq: 125288105 (rarely)

webcam status: on

somewhat daily reading
metafilter | myfi
sweat flavored gummi
deep blue day
anil dash
britney blog
i must...
mighty girl
edgeling's infinite ocean
rabbit blog
neil gaiman's journal
little. yellow. different.
cockeyed absurdist
mimi smartypants
bottom dwelling
here i type

et alterum
twin peaks gazette
apt. 121 | aireline
rotten tomatoes
mr. cranky
mass transit

get around much: