ill, sick, wurd, hot:

words that, in my estimation, describe this blog haha.

so... i'm not sure if I can share much from he outer reaches of the internet, since i'm pretty firmly stuck in the center of it, aka google (toby, were you the one playing DotA with that hero that ensnared its enemies in a pulsating mesh of vines and then had its way with them? anyway, that's kind of like my relationship with google), but i'll find a way to contribute, even if it means blowing really hard into my saxaphone and hammering away at a feedback peddle, i will be part of the band (anyone? guess the reference?). In these situations, when you really don't have shit to say or any talents that you want to show case, but you feel a burning desire to showcase nonetheless, I think it's important to come up with a gimick, so any ideas? I'll give a cigarette to anyone who can pidgeon-hole me/brand me/label me to my liking.

In the meantime though, while i'm waiting to step into my shoes and become the man i was born to be (or at least the blogger i was born to be), i'll leave you with a sick passage from the book i'm reading, 2666, by Roberto Bolano.

The paintings weren't bad. Still, the show wouldn't have been so successful or had such an impact if not for the central painting, much smaller than the rest, the masterpiece that years later led so man British artists down the path of new decadence. This painting, viewed properly (although one could never be sure of viewing it properly), was an ellipsis of self-portraits, sometimes a spiral of self-portraits (depending on the angle from which it was seen), seven feet by three and a half feet, in the cneter of which hung the painter's mummified right hand.