Again, sorry for the unnecessarily long break. I am aware my followers get a trifle angsty and existential if I'm not around to guide them. Sorry, men. These past few months must've really sucked for you.
I have another excuse. I was preoccupied with this girl-puppet I was seeing. Turns out I was wrong about her, though -- she's a mega-bitch and she broke my heart. Angry Puppet has spent the last few days drawing moustaches all over his collection of photos of her; little Hitler moustaches and also some handlebar ones. I may even post them on Facebook and then tag her in them. That oughtta teach her. So, basically, I've returned to the blogosphere for some solace; for a very public place to air some grievances and claw blindly out of this heartbroken funk I've found myself in.
*sigh*
I'll leave you now with a clip from one of my favourite movies: a mind-bending psychological thriller set in Reagan's money-hungry 1980s. It's called The Wedding Singer, and it stars a really precocious little upstarter who I can't help but compare to a Taxi Driver-era De Niro. Or a young Angry Puppet, even. To quote the film:
"You see, some of us will never find true love. Take for instance ... me. And I'm pretty sure that guy right there. And that lady with the sideburns. And basically everybody at Table 9. But the worst thing is that me, Fatty, Sideburns Lady, and the mutants over at Table 9, will never ever find a way to better our situation. Because, apparently, we have absolutely nothing to offer the opposite sex."
Amen, Brother Sandler.
Now if you will excuse me, I have a playdate with my good friend Johnny Walker.
No comments:
Post a Comment