the anthem must be spread.
the battle hymn of the new republic will rise.
the song will ring out from every roof top and shoe box apartment. a whisper: carried on the air and scampering paw.
from the lips on the wage slave and the worker. by the dim hearted and downtrodden. the weak and the uninspired.
all will sing.
(or at least hum)

for our souls.
for our supper.
for the spectacle.
the new anthems for the modern mouse.

i’m such a lame-o; i just spent all goddamn night changing my journal layout AND my “my space” layout even though my only friend is mr. my space Tom, who only exists only as some kind of a pity friend so losers like me don’t drink Drano.

what’s the world comming to?
is no one interested in becoming friends with a girl who possesses a completely useless knowledge of obscure web fonts and the atrophied social life that allows her the free time to compare and contrast each and every goddamn one?

i can juggle, too

ok, ok.

so i go to open my Daisy® brand sour cream and i take off the lid and the safety sealed foil label is emblazoned with inch high letters telling me

“memories are the

  photographs of life”

great.
my fucking sour cream just tried to get all sensitive on me. i don’t need this. i don’t need my food imparting words of wisdom on me. thats why i became a vegetarian in the first place : to decrease the likelihood of the spirit of Oprah infecting my lunch. ew.

p.s. - and if anyone wants a Gmail account: i’ve got 6 invites.

i’m feeling depressingly under-motivated and highly under-medicated, y’know the kind of slump that makes you wanna rip at your eye sockets and watch made-for-t.v.-movies and curse everything you ever did or said….or is that just me?
one of those days of lucid living: when you are acutely aware of being an unwilling spectator at your own lame-ass spectacle. and what a half-cocked spectacle it is.
i can’t work and i can’t sit and i can’t play and i just realized that i forgot my dad’s birthday and while it is not the first time i’ve forgotten his (or like he hasn’t forgotten mine, for that matter), i still feel like a schmuck.
in buying-something-makes-everything-better news: through the glittery magic of e-bay and credit cards (those fabulous plastic placards promising money that i know and my collection-agency-to-be knows that i will never, ever have.), i have just recently replaced the digital camera that was lost in the “great crackhead mugging of ‘03.” (merry fucking day after christmas, crackhead.) and so now i’m not just a schmuck: i’m a schmuck with a camera.
and
that
makes
ya’ll
poor suckers at the mercy of a schmuck with a camera. and if i was only just slightly less lazy and had the strength and willpower to lift my apathetic wittle fingers to open the cd drive to install the goddamn software, you’d be a forced audience to such drool-inducing tedium as the movie i took of my fish tank (oooh) or the photo montage of my cat (ahhhhh), or picture after narcissistic picture of myself looking aloof and distracted as people are supposed to look in digital photos and web cam pics. aren’t they? (emo kids and cameras are like cats and mirrors: you can’t force ‘em to look.)
but
i am that lazy.
and so.
the end.
yours very truly,
schmuck-o the kid.