I have a new favorite game. I've been playing it nonstop since yesterday afternoon.
It's not really much of a game, since there's no way to win or keep score or really any way to gain anything from it other than perfect pronunciation, which is exactly my type of game. Completely non-competitive, and it gives me a reason to feel smarter than other people with my critically impervious lexiconization (I said it) of ubiquitous and debauchery and somnambulism, three words which are perfectly synonymous with my drunken tardation.
Basically, follow these instructions:
Type a word into the searchmobile. One of the aforementioned three will suffice.
Scroll down to the "American Heritage Dictionary" definition.
Click "Audio help."
Yeah, I just did that.
Anyway, so I made it to work today, which means two things:
1. I dominate.
2. I am hungover as balls.
I would like to thank everyone who came over last night to turn my life into an endless cycle of Blurg. I hate the lot of you.
It was an average Tuesday night, your average party, with your average skewerkabobs, grilled mango salmon, two kinds of chili (fuck yeah, chili), and strawberry-lemon tart. Which is what everyone in Chicago eats on a Tuesday. AYFKM? What the hell kind of pretentious grinders are we?
The best kind.
Lennyways, hipstery bikes are breeding on the grassy knoll in front of The a.p.t. The party has split off into two separate factions of Xtine's friends: the ones that we share are sitting inside, the ones that are hers are on the porch, which has been boarded and reinforced since the last party we had. The friends that are just mine rarely visit my home. Knife. Gut. Stab.
Here is a question, by the way: why is it that when you're having fun being a jackass and embarrassing yourself to a near-tasteless degree, there has to be several dissenters hanging out on the porch who narc on your fun?
Wait. Let me rephrase that: why is it that when I get drunk and sing Huey Lewis and the News and there are strangers around who are far prettier than I could ever be, I always assume that they're dissenters? There is a great possibility that they too understand that you don't need no credit card to ride this train.
I have this thing about pretty people that I have yet to befriend: I always assume they're looking down on me from some beautiful people elitist pedestal, and refuse to converse with me until I squeeze out about forty pounds and stop cranking shit to eleven. But my assumptions could very well be untrue.
Life is fun.
I think I just experienced an earthquake...is that possible?