Wuddup Facebook

Mmm. Yay for streaming my blog on facebook. Oh, facebook. I love and hate you so much. You are like my website version of Zac Efron: so irresistable, and yet such a cakeface. Seriously though, the blog is much nicer in non-generic-blue-and-white-crackbook form. You should click the link. Go on, do it. I'll pay you. In hugs.

In news not related to my unhealthy fascination with teenage Disney stars, I've been doing some writing that I will attempt to make worthwhile enough to post sometime in the near future. My trouble is that my life is so boring that I get little inspiration from it, and so I can't really think of anything to write about. Someone give me a topic. No seriously. Someone tell me something random to write about and I will write you a story. Or a poem. Or an Oscar-winning Hollywood screenplay. It will be fun and joyous and wonderful. OK that's all for now. I'm going to go perv over Rome on DVD.

PS go see Enchanted.

PPS James Marsden OMG.

PPPS Seriously, his cheekbones.

PPPPS You could cut glass with that shit.

Prophets

Wow. How long has it been since I uploaded this puppy? I guess I haven't really written much worthwhile lately, and I'm also not sure if there are more than, like, 3 people who read this. Hey, here's a thought, if you are reading this, and even if you have nothing even remotely interesting to say about it, drop me a line so I have an idea of whether or not it's actually worth it to update this thing. I do enjoy writing in it when the mood strikes me. Anyway, a poem:

Prophets

This poem is fake,
She said, before beginning.
But all the same,
It follows such:
We devour one another with abandon
And watching on the couch
A film with friends
The awkward silence made us giggle
For we knew why the air was alive
With that electric crackle
And coming home
Had barely time to wonder how
One stealthy hand on my inner thigh
Got us through the entire movie
These days there is little time for contemplation.
And passing her counterfeit bill to the jewellers
She said, you see?
Nothing will be this real,
The poets have been lying,
Prophesying