Damn, it's been a while. Again.

I still don't have the internet at home (and, due to cost, I don't expect that to happen any time soon) so I'm, of course, sporadic. And just damned lazy.

Recent developments:

+ Two of my lovely co-workers have offered to teach me to sew. Now it's just finding a time to actually make this work. When I've got a day to do nothing, I'm going to come down to work and talk to them and try to set up some lessons -- they've got really nice machines that they're willing to teach me on. I've got fifty thousand ideas for pieces and no way to execute them. That will be resolved soon.

+ I had my bike seat stolen outside my apartment. Yeah. Fuckers.

+ I've become increasingly jaded with academia and social movements. You call yourself an anarchist, so you feel you have a right to be a dick to me because I have a job (without even considering my politics or me as a fucking person)? You have a degree sitting behind your name, so you feel your theories and analysis are somehow more valid than mine? How 'bout you fuck yourself, buddy, and go limp away on the horse you stumbled in on. I'm over it.

+ I've become far less social, and far more read-y lately. I spend a good portion of my time devouring books; travel books, fiction, non-fiction, essays, gender analysis, manifestos, short story collections, comics (oh lord, the comics!). Aside from work and DJing, I spend more time with text than with people. I can't say I have a real issue with that.

+ I have ream after ream of blank wrapping paper. I have every intention of buying a lot of spraypaint and utilizing the gazillion pounds of Modge Podge I have and making some custom, one of a kind wall pieces and placing them around town. They'll be mostly text. You'll recognize them when you see them.

+ I think we all need to dance more often. I intend on flash-mobbing, full on with boom boxes, three-piece suits, and Daft Punk. I'm on the lookout for some old boom boxes (that work). Hit a bitch up.

I'm totally done now -- I'm at work, and pretty tired of typing. I just worked eight hours dealing with drunken assholes who couldn't help but spill their Crown and Sprite (TM) all over the bar. Repeatedly. So, forgive me if I am curt. It's a survival mechanism I've cultivated being a bartender in the great galaxy of New Orleans, Louisiana. At least it keeps my wit in good working order.

Major Tom, out.