Peer pressure: All the cool kids are wearing plastic bags on their heads.

These are some things.  Not a few of my favorite things, but just some things I know.

• My parents’ 18 year old orange cat took over my new guitar’s case within a time span of five seconds
• I like big butts and I can not lie
• I’m sleepy
• I wish my parents were millionaires

On that last point, had my parents been exceedingly wealthy, by this point in my life I would have crashed my 5th or 6th Ferrari around a palm tree.  But NOOOO… I have to work for a living and I’m saddled with this darned “compassion for my fellow man” and this darned “conscience”.

Being a spoiled rich teenager would have been fucking SWEET.  I would have had all the pussy I wanted and probably all the cocaine I could have snorted.  That’s what rich kids do right?  Help me out here.

Instead, I have to shop at Wal*Mart like everyone else.

Is that how you spell it?  I remember when I worked at my first job counting retail inventory, the folks at 7-11 would get ÁœBER pissed if you didn’t spell it “7-Eleven”.  Like it fucking matters.

“Silly customer!  You can not hurt a Twinkie!”

And now to provide the answer to a question I asked in yesterday’s meaningless and dreary blog post.  No, I did not go to bed early and get lots of sleep like I needed to do.  Yes, I did call one of the lovely ladies on NiteFlirt and talk to her for 73 minutes as I ordered her around the robot lab and got her to show off her robotic nature and her electronic circuitry to the other fembots around her.

So I went to bed all giddy and happy and fantasizing about fembots.

Then again, that last part I do every night.

And every day.

Have I finished spilling the contents of my mind into today’s blog post?

Perhaps.

One more thing.  I have a habit left over from my Commodore 64 days.  When I’m typing something… anything at a computer, and I make a mistake… I rarely use the mouse or even the arrow keys to go back and fix it.  No, I always go straight for the backspace key so I can delete the previous text and re-type the correct text.  I’ve done it about 10 times in this paragraph alone.  This is a seemingly unbreakable habit left over from when I used a word processor called “SpeedScript” for the Commodore 64.

This program was printed line-by-line in a magazine, and to “install” it on your computer, you had to enter it in line-by-line and then save it to a diskette.  But it worked.  And I remember printing school assignments on my Commodore MPS-801 dot matrix printer after I had typed them into SpeedScript.

You could customize the screen and text colour too, and I always preferred dark blue text on a white background.

Ah, those were the days.  Actually, no they weren’t.  My childhood was fucking miserable.  THESE are the days, I must say.

Zoy!