I'm guest-posting on my own blog. It's such an honor. I'm drunk posting this. Man, I'm wasted. I'm posting this while nude. Dude, it's freezing. And when I say "it," I mean the weather. Now I'm pretending to be a teenage hot guy. I'm stoked. Now I'm pretending to be an teenage lesbian. It's getting too hot in here for this heavy shirt. Could you help me with it? Now I'm a TV reporter trying to lure pedophiles to our mobile studio set up in this modest house in this middle-class neighborhood. Yes, that's right, I'm only twelve. Now I'm an FBI agent. Now I'm a serial killer. Now I'm an online gamer. An online dater. A knitting enthusiast. An aspiring writer. An inefficient employee. A bored housewife. A religious proselytizer. A political wonk. A porn addict. A college dorm potato.
I am blogosphere. Read me roar.
I want to do a self-portrait in oil paints, but I can't decide who I should get to sit for it. I was going to try to get a celebrity, but there are none of them around here. Around here we just seem to have a bunch of employees and housewives and dudes who don't work and single people and teenagers and children and old people. There's not celebrity one. Maybe I could get a homeless guy to sit for it. Whomever I get, I certainly hope it comes out looking like me. It won't be much of a self-portrait otherwise, right?
I'm not having an identity crisis. I'm have a triple shot caffè e latte with no foam.
Hello, friends. wHo are you today?
Later. Love.
