feeling neglected

yes, i am. it is true. there are a lot of blogs out there, and many of them, if not most, are worse than mine. i'm not claiming to be any kind of master of the medium -- god knows, technological advances so quickly outstripped my own feeble html skills, rendering them obsolete nearly the same week i went online.

nonetheless, i HAVE been blogging here since November of *2000* ! since then, i've brought you humor, and insight, personal and otherwise. commentary and anecdote. links and pictures. sex and heartbreak, joy and ennui. the news and the not-so-news. and yet, shit -- no one gives a flying rat's ass.

i mean, damn! -- don't i at least get street cred for staying power?

or props for prescience, maybe -- recognizing in my own little corner of the world that this funky little application would explode exponentially? in short time? do i get NO credit for being down with blogs before, what? -- 95% of humanity???

or for permitting a view into Everyman's life, pre 9-11.

for something, for crying out loud! no one visits, no one comments, no one seeks me out.

fuck.

have you forgotten? have all of you FORGOTTEN???? the whole PURPOSE of this fucking thing was so that you could DISCOVER me, damn it!!!!!!! and get me the fuck OUT of this boring 9-5 existence.

so, in that spirit, enjoy some keywords, you thankless masses.

adults have sex and take pictures and videos of their sins despite religion and politics. barbara bush fed jenna to george and he ate her straight up. meanwhile, tim leary sold drugs to al quaeda, but no one knows because of the coverup. ask the usual suspects -- ron reagan, dick cheney, ollie north -- they won't tell you that osama bin laden ate them raw, without protection. terrorists still suck, and sometimes even run with scissors from exposed breasts, like janet jackson's. the election was fixed, and so is donkey kong. pac man begs to differ, but remember -- he couldn't munch his way out of a bag, let alone skirt impending doom. or upskirt it, as the case may be. nonetheless, the end of the world is only a rumor, and if wishes were trees, trees would be fallen -- ask any advisor you happen to see, psychic or otherwise, what's the best tuna? chicken of the sea, but, again -- remember: you can tune a piano, but you can't tuna fish. where has rock 'n roll gotten us, anyways? someone reported that ozzy osbourne has aids, and this too is not good. you can't find a needle in a haystack when it's stuck in a pundits armpit. choose stilettos over sensible shoes, if you will, but I would love to date a woman who makes great martinis. afterwards, coffee can be a nice pick-me-up. pick you up? what time? say, seven-ish? yes, she said, yes yes oh yes. you won't see this on the news, because the revolution will not be televised.

there. take that, search engines.

and bring on the royalties, 'cuz i'm getting tired of the game.