When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
The Bruins are down 3-1 to the demon-seed that is montreal, when they should in fact be up 3-1. defeat is imminent. my tears are copious.
I dropped my beloved champagne phone in the toilet (yes the toilet) and now it works in random spurts, mostly content to converse in gibberish.
the thick clunky ipod that has nourished my soul since 2003 has spun her last tune. her swan song? grandaddy’s yeah is what we had. a more fitting song could not have been playing as death overcame my precious.
One of my favorite coworkers is quitting, and while this means I finally get my office, I am sad to see him go. He’s moving on to a bigger & better job, yay for him, but my jealousy is all consuming.
I continue to use my embarrassingly shitty headphones that came with my sony discman, circa 1998. Funny how those still work, while newer and better h’phones have come and gone, talking of michelangelo.
My hair has left the stages of charmingly messy and rat’s nest cute and burst through the gates of sad lonely homeless woman.
I could go on, I have plenty more to bitch about, but I think you get the idea.
I know, I know, one man’s sorrow is another man’s fortune. but can you shut up about it? I don’t come to your house and tell you how drab your color scheme is, do I? go to hell, mother effers. go to hell.
- unbeatable banzuke
- it’s morning in Philly