There i was - racing home after a hard-fought battle for the hottest Christmas toy this year, a “video-game” console called the Nintendo Wii, when i began to feel unwanted pangs of Christmas cheer. i’m talking about some full-on nauseating prime time stop motion-animated singing mouse-style puppetrous heart-warming Hallmark crap. Be ye warned.
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i try not to be too time-specific in my journal, dreaming of the day when the Annals of Twistedhip, a thick leatherbound tome that smells like whiskey-addicted old men, becomes a staple in the library of every future and literate member of Christendom. I’d hate for that venerable volume to sound dated.

So when i write presently about how i’ve been embroiled in a gruelling ordeal surrounding a highly sought-after “video-game” console, i’m reluctant to tell you the name of it. It will just cheapen the long-term appeal of my journal, i tell myself. Then i think “get over yourself - no one reads your lousy blog, and your page views are all from people searching for Stephanie Seymour’s weiner.”
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i have turned 29 years old. My predictions from last year did not come true - namely, that i would die at 28. i’m almost a little disappointed. Call it a point of pride, i suppose. If i had died at 28, i would have thought “hey, cool. i predicted the future.” Of course, i would have been dead, so i probably would have said something like “hey, cool. Your brain keeps thinking stuff at least a week after you die. Gosh, it’s cold in this box.”

So not only do i not have psychic powers, but i have to keep living. Double bummer. i figured there was nothing left for me to do but to abandon all my ideals and pattern the remainder of my existence in direct opposition to my established moral creed. So i bought a cell phone.
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