Goldfinger's logic in only hiring Koreans:

At least it's only the bad guys. As a counterpoint I give you Bond's views on Koreans:


Hmm. Bad example. Uh... His view on suffrage (which is not influenced at all by the fact that the woman in question rejected him sexually) will redeem him, surely:
Okay, so maybe Bond is an asshole too.

I do, however, intensely want to read this book. It sounds hilarious in the worst way.

Anthony Morley, former Mr Gay U.K. 1993, has been charged with murder and cannibalism.

All right, he wasn't actually charged with cannibalism, but after stabbing his friend to death he chose a good, lean piece of thigh meat, diced and cooked it. Unconfirmed details that have been leaked to press indicate the body was also sexually mutilated. Rumors say the man's nipples were removed and are currently missing. That implies one of two things, both of which are disturbing. Either he ate the nipples, along with bits of thigh, or he took them as a trophy.

This has been your weird news update.

It's to do with knowing and being known. I remember how it stopped seeming odd that in biblical Greek knowing was used for making love. Whosit knew so-and-so. Carnal knowledge. It's what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face. Every other version of oneself is on offer to the public. We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy...we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation...What's left? What else is there that hasn't been dealt out like a deck of cards? Carnal knowledge. Personal, final, uncompromised. Knowing, being known. I rever that. Having that is being rich, you can be generous about what's shared -- she walks, she talks, she laughs, she lends a sympathetic ear, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables, she's everybody's and it don't mean a thing, let them eat cake; knowledge is something else, the undealt card...

The Real Thing by Tom Stoppard

Does anyone else write out entire entries only to delete them when you come to the end because by then the topic seems like an insignificant and ridiculous thing to post about?

See, I even almost deleted that. Fuck my internalism.

So much to say. Where to begin?

Went to a Rancid show tonight, only to find Rancid horribly disappointing. Murphy's Law brought their 'A' game, however, so the evening wasn't a total loss and I got to damage people/be damaged by people. The pre-show game of choice was a moshpit game of beach volleyball. It killed the time efficiently enough, but like all things people would not let it go, despite the fact that by the time the bands came on it was no longer amusing.

I'm waiting for Friday. Why, you ask? Well, my faithful, ill-informed readers, Friday heralds the beginning of my week-long escape from this place. That's right, for one full, glorious week, I will be in Ocean City, assiduously shirking daylight along the boardwalk. It'll be magical.

Finally got news as to where we'll be going after Justin re-enlists. Ft. Meade, MD. Rejoice, for I am delivered. My home coming shall be glorious, and more importantly funded by the military. Don't worry, though. I'll still take special care to avoid anyone I know. Why, you ask again, you articulate creatures? Because I'm a bitter elitist who likes her solitude.

Yesterday I slept for a full 24 hours. Woke up feeling wretched. There were wires running through my brain for the rest of the day. Tonight is better. Only a dull ache left.

I feel like I'm losing time or my mind. Last Friday I had to ask if it was Friday because I couldn't tell if I was remembering correctly or if it was really Saturday and I only thought I had worn those clothes on Friday. Deja vu haunts my life like my reflection. I came into work and couldn't tell if it was Wednesday or Thursday. Maybe it was both.

There are bugs in this office. I can't shake the feeling they're crawling on me. It's too hot in here.

You know what I hate? Getting some really good sleep and waking up realizing you said you would come in early to work that night, fifteen minutes after you were supposed to come in early.

You know what I hate more? Going in to find out that you are working with a douche bag extraordinaire, the kind of douche who really works for his title.

You know what I hate more than that? Going in to find out that you have only one office key between two people (one of whom is the aforementioned douche) and that you must share a keyset. That's right, you must talk to this douche bag and stay in constant company for the next eight hours.

Oh yes, and did I mention he smells? Because he does, and in the same vein that he is a dedicated douche, he has cultivated his body odor to be as offensive as possible to your senses. It has transcended the olfactory system and hovers as a haze in the corners of your vision. It coats any surface he has come into contact with as a gritty sweat-like substance. Synaesthetic stink.

If someone could find me a full-body wet nap durable enough to last eight hours, I would appreciate it because it is currently thirteen minutes into my shift with Rank and I already feel as if I am somehow unclean simply by existing in his immediate vicinity.

You know, I left this as a comment on insanexflame's journal, but I feel it deserves its own entry.

Penis.

If you find yourself wondering why I felt the urge to type that, follow these instructions.

1. Stay up until approximately three a.m.
2. Tune in to the TV Guide Channel.
3. Wait for the product Extenze to be advertised. Don't worry, it will be. It's just a waiting game.
4. Suffer as I have suffered feeling the frustration build in your mind over their refusal to say the word penis.

Extenze Marketers, I'll demonstrate this again for good measure.

Penis.

That is all.

My first update in ages is a meme. Don't complain or I'll ignore you.

( I mean... )

With all the fire set in our eyes,
Without a cornerstone to realize
That later on we'll build the pyre
And burn so easily - well, everyone but me...

And soon we'll sing in better moods,
A sigularity - well, everyone but you...
They'll pull the nerves out through the pores.
Though bruised so easily the comeback kid's not
Bleeding.

The Silversun Pickups .::. Comeback Kid

Stolen from Justin.

COMMENT ANONYMOUSLY WITH~~

1. one secret.
2. one compliment.
3. one non-compliment.
4. lyrics to a song.
5. how old you are.
6. how long we've been friends.
7. a hint to who you are.
8. after you do it for me, put it in your LJ and see who does it for you

Open iTunes or Windows Media Player to answer the following. Go to your library. Answer, no matter how embarrassing it is.

How many songs? 3138

Sort by artist
First artist: .3k
Last artist: Zwan

Sort by song title
First Song: "Battle Without Honor or Humanity" Kill Bill Soundtrack
Last Song: Zombie Nation by Kernkraft 400

Sort by time
Shortest Song: Let's Hear it for Nine Inch Nails by NIN
Longest Song: MX/Damone by Deftones

Sort by album
First Album: () by Sigur Ros
Last Album: You're a Woman, I'm a Machine by Death from Above 1979

First song that comes up on shuffle: Bullet by the Misfist

How many songs come up when you search for sex: 17
How many songs come up when you search for death: 31
How many songs come up when you search for love: 99

I don't know who you are, and I don't really care. If you have something to say to me, I suggest having the courage to do so with a name attached, or just IM me.

Sincerely hoping you get some balls,
Robyn

Cassandra, you really had it rough. My sympathies.

It's good to have something to work for again.

Do I really make people feel superfluous?

I swear if I my room does one more symbolic thing I'm killing someone.

FUCK! I can't even type quickly because of my fucking hand. Somebody stick a fucking fork in me. I just want to be done.

God, this sucks. I'm so fucked up. And so damn confused. Don't ask me about it. Don't tell me you're there. I don't need it. I just needed to yell at the top of my lungs. I'm finished.

And on second thought, I'm not done. Keep your fork. I'm equipped with Spoon.

Oscar must die. Through his selfish actions, he has unleashed fury upon the mouse population of Winslow. I hope they've lived entirely happy mouse lives up to this point, because they won't be happy with these results.

Happy Romantic Commercialism Day, bitches. May you express your love with rampant consumerism at the cost of actual emotion. Cheers.