Runoff from the Stars, No, Not the Celebrity Kind

whoops. blogger wouldn’t work yesterday. so here’s some nibbles from yesterday. in REVERSE chronological order to throw off your keen senses of acuity.

it’s come to the point in the afternoon when i am tilting back a bag of chip remnants so all the little missed morsels and specks of cheese dust will frolic into my mouth like a stream of belligerent warriors.

and then. and then. wait. there’s more. before, i was reaching down with regularity because i put the bag of chips near my feet so that i had to reach down and do sort of workplace kind of ab crunch every time i wanted a chip. it made me feel somewhat productive in this crazy world of ours. to do a crunch to receive a crunch in my mouth. tit for tat. and all that.


dude. i can’t get enough NASA photos. they really put life in perspective when you’re feeling like shit. you think to yourself, “hey. i’m really just a little shit in the scheme of things. i mean, wowwwwwww.” and counterintuitively, you feel much better about your fuckups. as well as a little short of breath.

it’s the freaking eta and keyhole in the carina nebula, bitches

p.s. this perfectly describes how i feel about men.

““His face was the color of a freshly baked pork pie and as noncommittal” (Thomas Pynchon)


i can’t stop running into amherst people. they’re everywhere. it’s a conspiracy. on the street. on the train. they plague my putrefying soul with goodness and camaraderie. nothing but love. especially when they say things like, “btw i’m engaged, finished up my business degree, and starting a new life in the fall after the wedding.” “oh, me? not engaged with a person nor a paying job. living at home. high on life. high-five?”

if you’re sick of the rigid aesthetic obsessions of society…
You’re Not Alone

since i’m on the all-newsstaff email list i was fortunate enough to receive this email this morning:

subject:HELP! I’m a typewriter guy in a digital world.
sender: anon
message: Does anyone know how to get an iPod shuttle to work?

a few minutes later. same sender.
subject: Shuffle. Shuttle. Whatever. The damn thing doesn’t work.

a minute later. same sender.
subject: Thanks for all your responses. I’ve got some help and I’m glad I can be a source of such luddite amusement…

mmmmmm. breaking news. on the minute.

I MIGHT GO INTO SPORTS WRITING. CROSS YOUR FINGERS. i’ve always wanted to be a balding middle-aged man with an inferiority complex masked by cockiness, vulgarity, and pure unrestrained anger.

yesssss. i can see it now.

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