I'm Back

And that box of Valtrex under your bathroom sink ain't gonna get rid of me. Actually, if you're a girl, yes, yes, it fucking will. RUN GET HELP.

My weekend away from all things WoW was mostly repeated failures to close, a brief encounter with undercover cops trying to sell me coke, and a reminder that I don't really fit in with the cats singing along to Journey and Live at the clubs here. I alone love you. I alone tempt you.

Seriously, fucking kill yourselves. And I know I tell people to kill themselves a lot. But when you see a club full of busted Indian girls and white-douchebag-jock-finance-fratboy- diesel-jean-wearing-fucks jumping up and down and singing along to 90s pop/rock, you become quickly aware that a lot of people just need to die a little bit.

Me: God, it's great to take a break from the sleep-work-exercise-wow-study-sleep cycle.

World: Yeah, yeah, we're rocking the suburbs. Yeah, yeah, we're rocking the suburbs.

Me: Matchbox 20. Cool.

World: ITS FUCKING BEN FOLDS NUB.

Me: ...

To be serious for a second -- what the fuck happened? Why is there a fucking post-hip-hop bad-rock revival going on everywhere? I haven't heard Biggie out anywhere in months. No Souljah Boy or Jay. Nothing. Love or hate big dumb hip-pop, it's fucking infinitely better that watching people convulse awkwardly to whitebread rock with no beat.

Yes, I'm emo. I sit around at home and listen to this shit:





But I keep that shit at home. I keep the whiteboy at home. When I go out, I fire up The Wire, pregame some vodka and redbull, and practice in front of the mirror, "What's good Holmes." I never bought a fucking Offspring CD. I have zero clue who Toad the Wet Sprocket are. Why is the world so fucking gay?

I'm maybe a little drunk/hungover. Sorry. =p