and now for the promised minirant on the scarlet letter:
does it end? certainly nathaniel hawthorn couldnt have been so ignorant as to believe that his oh-so-dead audience would read every single word in every single descriptive sentence which makes up almost every single paragraph in the WHOLE ENTIRE BOOK. perhaps i would be a bit more forgiving if i didnt want to commit suicide every time i turned the page to find that no, the book is not done yet, and that in fact i have two hundred more pages of living hell to suffer through before completing this long and depressing journey that is reading the scarlet letter.

moving on, i spilled oatmeal on myself four times this morning.

its pretty hard to get into a football game when youve been gallivanting around town all evening without your wallet, which contains not only your money, but your license as well. good thing i only bruised a few pedestrians.

if a kid asked you to paint a spongebob squarepants on his face because you, oh volunteer of facial art, work at the face painting booth, would you do it? if you answered in the affirmative, i dont know you, so stop reading this and get out of my life. if you answered in the negative, guitar.

my boss smells like diarrhea. no joke.

i have to make like a chip and dip, or at least think of wittier things to say every time i end these.