You probably don't want to read this.

This is my right thumb.

I don't remember exactly when I got that blood spot in there. It's been a while though, however long it takes to grow half a fingernail specifically. During that period, every single time I wipe my ass I think that I've gotten shit on my thumb. I never actually have. But I think I have. Every time.

Cheesy Winter Sweaters.

Google it.

File it under TT825 D570.2 1974

Before we get to the sweatering, is anyone else listening to as much Kanye and Akon as I am right now? 808s and Freedom? Both are seeing some serious action by The Barnebey Collection's playcount department. On the female side, I can't really get enough Cyndi Lauper's Into the Night Life and Linda Ronstadt's Silver Threads and Golden Needles. They are lighting it up.

That brings us, and me, to the Linguistics Department reading room/library. Typical activities in this room include printing the semi-quarterly department newsletter (bottom left), reading scholarly journals (back center), lounging on small pieces of furniture (front center), putting the unabridged dictionary on high shelves (back right), and completing the Thursday NY Times crossword (bottom right).

Here is what I would look like while doing all those things, to a zombie wearing night vision glasses.

Hello Mustache

Tonight was a night of painful revelation, self-reflection, and razor blades. 

I was trying for the Jagged Edge.  

         I'd been planing it all year long. 

                    And I thought my beard was ready.

My beard wasn't ready. 

It's so hard for me to say those words.

As a consolation prize I get to go back to my old friend here.

But it's not what I really wanted.

Goodbye Beard

I'm a few days behind schedule because of equipment issues, but tonight I say goodbye to the beard.

Disaster in the mailroom.

This morning as I watched the rolling industrial wasteland that is Secaucus, NJ pass by the train window, I did some spot Karma Kalculations. I had been spending it pretty liberally as of late and I was surprised to have made it through a weekend in Brooklyn with my camera, phone, wallet, appendages, and wardrobe all still intact. Then I missed my connecting train in Trenton. Trenton is depressing; having to spend an extra 64 minutes in the knee-pit of New Jersey will mollify anyone's Karma accountant. But this sight, waiting for me when I got back to Philadelphia, is even more depressing. There once was a Little Gay Lego in there that held 4 GB of data. Now some little gay postman is out there sharing files like there's no tomorrow.