my revolution

Will not be televised, but mostly due to budgetary constraints. I'm currently working on the script for theatrical presentation in the off-off-Broadway-in-Boca-Reton scene. Fresh-as-fuck.

Can you imagine anything more chilling than if there was some kind of way to tabulate the number of hours one spent checking myspace? I...could...but the chill of the idea of seeing such a physical representation of time-wastiness...it feels as though a clog-dancing convention is being held on my future grave.

Also startling: every piece of spam that you carelessly delete that is born of some freakish text-build program somehow contains a tiny fragment of poetry. Check out this lil snippet I cyber-dumpster-dove. It's title seems to be 'huge breadboard.'

Like flogging a dead horse


Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burned?


Flies never visit an egg that has no crack


You cant hurry love.

I don't really know what I'm trying to get across here. The far-reaching implications of me being THIS bored at work. It almost makes me want to keep working here, if this place is going to return to such tomb-like-ness. Almost.

Other bits of oddness sure to be conveyed at a later date.