REVENGE OF THE BLOG

One day I woke up and realized I loved you... Every day since then has been a fucking train wreck. I would like to thank you for making me realize I was truly capable of such a wonderful human emotion. I mean...I don't know how I managed to survive all those years. So thanks. Now it's all those little things, the little things that never grow old. Wait...or do they? The fact you don't shower on a consistent basis is one of your more endearing qualities. I love that, what do you call it...rugged man smell. I love the fact that you walk around in your boxers, unshowered, with MY last beer in that dirty little hand of yours. And holy shit do I love the fact that you have no qualms about picking clothing up off of the street and putting it on your poorly bathed exterior whereupon you enter into MY apartment and drink my last beer. I am so FULL of LOVE I could just fucking puke.
¡Mierda santa! vi el mejor concierto anoche, y yo deseo que usted estuviera aquí. yo le pierdo, y no le puede esperar para venir la visita mí. dice no nadie yo hablo español, bueno? pienso que yo me vuelvo loco fuera aquí, pero soy mucha diversión. era un viaje corto de fuckin, yo le puedo decir ese tanto!
Today I am going to give homage to one of my favorite poets. May I have a round of applause for Mr. T.S. Eliott, everybody???!!!!! (clapping) I am very pleased to bring you one of my favorite poems by this very talented author.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosseA persona che mai tornasse al mondo,Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondoNon torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. (1)Let us go then, you and I,When the evening is spread out against the skyLike a patient etherized (2) upon a table;Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,The muttering retreatsOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotelsAnd sawdust (3) restaurants with oyster-shells:Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidious intentTo lead you to an overwhelming question . . .Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"Let us go and make our visit.In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo. (4)The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panesLicked its tongue into the corners of the evening,Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,And seeing that it was a soft October night,Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.And indeed there will be timeFor the yellow smoke that slides along the street,Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;There will be time, there will be timeTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;There will be time to murder and create,And time for all the works and days of handsThat lift and drop a question on your plate;Time for you and time for me,And time yet for a hundred indecisions,And for a hundred visions and revisions,Before the taking of a toast and tea.In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo.And indeed there will be timeTo wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"Time to turn back and descend the stair,With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]Do I dareDisturb the universe?In a minute there is timeFor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.For I have known them all already, known them all:--Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;I know the voices dying with a dying fallBeneath the music from a farther room.So how should I presume?And I have known the eyes already, known them all--The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,Then how should I beginTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?And how should I presume?And I have known the arms already, known them all--Arms that are braceleted and white and bare[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]Is it perfume from a dressThat makes me so digress?Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.And should I then presume?And how should I begin?. . . . .Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streetsAnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipesOf lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .I should have been a pair of ragged clawsScuttling across the floors of silent seas.. . . . .And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!Smoothed by long fingers,Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, (5)Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, (6)I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,And in short, I was afraid.And would it have been worth it, after all,After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,Would it have been worth while,To have bitten off the matter with a smile,To have squeezed the universe into a ballTo roll it toward some overwhelming question,To say: "I am Lazarus, (7) come from the deadCome back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--If one, settling a pillow by her head,Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.That is not it, at all."And would it have been worth it, after all,Would it have been worth while,After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along thefloor--And this, and so much more?--It is impossible to say just what I mean!But as if a magic lantern (8) threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:Would it have been worth whileIf one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,And turning toward the window, should say:"That is not it at all,That is not what I meant, at all.". . . . .No! I am not Prince Hamlet, (9) nor was meant to be;Am an attendant lord, one that will doTo swell a progress, start a scene or two,Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,Deferential, glad to be of use,Politic, cautious, and meticulous;Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuseAt times, indeed, almost ridiculous--Almost, at times, the Fool.I grow old . . .I grow old . . .I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.I do not think that they will sing to me.I have seen them riding seaward on the wavesCombing the white hair of the waves blown backWhen the wind blows the water white and black.We have lingered in the chambers of the seaBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brownTill human voices wake us, and we drown.

Is that a BLOG in your pants? Or are you just happy to see me?

The bastard stole my pickle. He took it right off my tray, and ate it...the whole time staring right at me with this smug look on his face that yelled "That's right, I stole your pickle! What are you gonna do about it?!" The crunch of my beloved pickle in his mouth reverberated down my spine and all I could think was how nice my fork would have looked sticking out of his eye.