Damn, goddamit, damn. Damn. What's the point?
It's cold when I wake up. I hate the cold; I hate waking up. I have to, and do you know why? Socialists, that's why, goddamn socialists.
Would anyone care if I just went back to bed and wrote sophomoric LiveJournal poetry? No.
Six billion people. Six billion people. What's one in a number like that, and, is that who I am? I'm a six-billionth of humanity, hi, can I buy you a drink, my name's Mr Billionth.
I am 79626666666666666666666 times smaller than the Earth.
And Earth, as well, you can thank The Liberal Media for that one. It's fucking tiny. According to scientists, the total mass of the universe is between some number with fifty zeros, and some number with infinite zeros. So you're nothing.
I was going to write about Sarah Palin, today, and how great she is, but I'm too goddamn miserable, so here's the art obituary I half-arsedly began last Thursday:
Surreal, minimalist painter Quigley Browne was not in fact talented, critics have generally agreed. The artist, who is now dead, became moderately renowned for publicised acts of self-abuse, leaping from a slightly elevated platform on concrete steps, for example, and stabbing himself with a paintbrush; this was, until recently, attributed to artistic intent.