Music: Jens Lekman - The Wrong Hands
Mood: Elitist-ish
Alcohol is a magnificent social lubricant.
We don't own America. We are currently renting it from foreign creditors.
I am an absolute sucker for marketing. At this point, I'll buy just about anything Apple produces, even if it's bad for my health.
I have remarkably bitchy friends. The ones that cause particular grief usually follow a generic template: in a sort-of-but-not-really-sure relationship, struggling with work, broke, living in a major metropolitan area, and bordering on alcoholism. This should worry me, I would assume. Yet for some reason I find these people to be the most normal of the bunch.
My parents are world-class over-analyzers. This might be a by-product of our ethnicity; maybe all Indian parents like to drill-down each bit of minutia that is your day. But mine just love it. LOVE IT.
Most relationships are doomed to fail. I say this, because numbers don't lie. In California alone the divorce rate is somewhere in the ballpark of 50%. So of the ten friends I have that are involved in "serious" relationships, half of them will wind up regretting the whole fucking thing and lamenting Valentines Day for the rest of their lives.
I've become a History Channel fanatic in the last year. Thanks Writers Guild of America!
As a group, we're eagerly looking forward to the day when one of our "bro's" decides to take the leap and get married. We're not sure which one will do it first, but that hasn't stopped us from creating betting scenarios and expectations. It's somewhat akin to sports gambling, except here's a scenario where if you're that desperate, you can actually rig the result in your favor.
Club waitresses should never EVER complain about their work environment. Look bitch, you chose to work in a place that's open from 10 to 2 Tuesday through Saturday. You choose to dress like the catch of the day so you can collect at least a G a night from an oversexed table of Armenians. Nobody put a gun to your head and said 'you must wear fishnets and tons of eye-shadow and grind with the token Guido at each table'. This is your conscious decision. So too bad if I want to make disparaging comments about your ass. Deal.
I really don't like Football. I mean I watch it on weekends out of boredom, but I could do without the whole production.
Cubby Bernstein and Douchebag Beach were very good ideas.
Razorlight are garbage.
Everyone should experience the All Out Show with Rude Jude and Lord Sear at least once in their life.
"Perfecting the art of non-chalance while setting the bar really low" - which I coined back in 2006 has thus far been the most astute description of how I go about living my life. This concerns me.
Most of the people I know are advising me to move to the east coast after Merrill for a few years so that I can live without regrets. They might have a point, but bear in mind that the majority of those egging me on either A.) currently live on the EC and are totally bored out of their fucking minds that their openly lobbying for the rest of us to join them in wallowing sessions, B.) currently live in a warm climate and have no clue what November in Boston is like, or C.) are convinced that Phish concerts and Dave Matthews jam sessions happen in every quad on a daily basis.
Mood: Elitist-ish
Alcohol is a magnificent social lubricant.
We don't own America. We are currently renting it from foreign creditors.
I am an absolute sucker for marketing. At this point, I'll buy just about anything Apple produces, even if it's bad for my health.
I have remarkably bitchy friends. The ones that cause particular grief usually follow a generic template: in a sort-of-but-not-really-sure relationship, struggling with work, broke, living in a major metropolitan area, and bordering on alcoholism. This should worry me, I would assume. Yet for some reason I find these people to be the most normal of the bunch.
My parents are world-class over-analyzers. This might be a by-product of our ethnicity; maybe all Indian parents like to drill-down each bit of minutia that is your day. But mine just love it. LOVE IT.
Most relationships are doomed to fail. I say this, because numbers don't lie. In California alone the divorce rate is somewhere in the ballpark of 50%. So of the ten friends I have that are involved in "serious" relationships, half of them will wind up regretting the whole fucking thing and lamenting Valentines Day for the rest of their lives.
I've become a History Channel fanatic in the last year. Thanks Writers Guild of America!
As a group, we're eagerly looking forward to the day when one of our "bro's" decides to take the leap and get married. We're not sure which one will do it first, but that hasn't stopped us from creating betting scenarios and expectations. It's somewhat akin to sports gambling, except here's a scenario where if you're that desperate, you can actually rig the result in your favor.
Club waitresses should never EVER complain about their work environment. Look bitch, you chose to work in a place that's open from 10 to 2 Tuesday through Saturday. You choose to dress like the catch of the day so you can collect at least a G a night from an oversexed table of Armenians. Nobody put a gun to your head and said 'you must wear fishnets and tons of eye-shadow and grind with the token Guido at each table'. This is your conscious decision. So too bad if I want to make disparaging comments about your ass. Deal.
I really don't like Football. I mean I watch it on weekends out of boredom, but I could do without the whole production.
Cubby Bernstein and Douchebag Beach were very good ideas.
Razorlight are garbage.
Everyone should experience the All Out Show with Rude Jude and Lord Sear at least once in their life.
"Perfecting the art of non-chalance while setting the bar really low" - which I coined back in 2006 has thus far been the most astute description of how I go about living my life. This concerns me.
Most of the people I know are advising me to move to the east coast after Merrill for a few years so that I can live without regrets. They might have a point, but bear in mind that the majority of those egging me on either A.) currently live on the EC and are totally bored out of their fucking minds that their openly lobbying for the rest of us to join them in wallowing sessions, B.) currently live in a warm climate and have no clue what November in Boston is like, or C.) are convinced that Phish concerts and Dave Matthews jam sessions happen in every quad on a daily basis.
