Are you pondering what I'm pondering?

Following the emo crap that was my last post, raelien enquired as to whether or not survival was a rquirement. As we've always been open for questions here at Crap: the Blog, I will now field that one, and I will use lots of quotes to do so, so as to lessen my own work.

Woody Allen once said, "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work, I want to achieve it through not dying." However, it was Collete who said, "The total absence of humor renders life impossible." A conundrum. Therefore, since I cannot die, and we need humor, we must go on to Mel Brooks: "Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die."

Priceless.

"Defining and analyzing humor is a pastime of the humorless."
- Robert Benchly

P.S. I'm in Macbeth this weekend. Please wish me many broken limbs.

Two and fifty of the mornevening

Yeah, so I should be writing a paper right now, but i can't make myself do it just yet, so, here I am.

Allow me to wax philosophical for a bit. (I do this at this time of day.) I find it amazing how much abuse the human body can actually take. I'm pretty sure I'm chronically deprived of sleep this week, and yet I continue to be able to make my body forge forward through yet another all-nighter. I churn out word after word, paragraph after paragraph, papers flowing from my mind to my fingers to the keyboard to the screen. Hours of this. Listening to my music. Dashboard Confessional resounds while I analyze the poetry of E.E. Cummings. My desk lamp casts strange shadows on my keyboard, and outside the circle of its light everything is blurred. I am the center of the sphere of light that is my universe. Zen poetry. Images from my evening or morning or whatnot: MountainDewAcetaminophenWristwatch. A thirty sided die reflects the the glow of a Light Emitting Diode on the keyboard of the computer I'm using to write a paper about poetry. I blog it.

I am Pangeek.

Now all I need to do is be funny.

Did you know that somebody reads this crap?

So, it turns out I get an average of ten page hits a week that aren't me!

That means that like two people read this!

Maybe even three!

Or four!

I love you guys.

But seriously, what the heck. Now I feel all responsible for updating and stuff, and being all funny and whatever. Man, the nerve of you people.

Go home.

Oh, and rae, I refuse to acknowledge that you're stalking me.

Crap!

Spring Fever - Diagnosis: Botulism

So, it's spring, which entails several interseting things.

Some of these things I like, like pretty girls in warm weather clothing. (See: not much!)

Some of these things I do not like, like said warm weather gear clad females sucking face with guys who are not me. (Ho-hum.)

And now, I shall cease to whine.

Enjoy your silence while it lasts.

P.S. Ladies, you know where to find me.