some new developments and a few old ones

living in my parents house should probably give me serious incentive to get a fucking job with a warlordian salary and a new hairdo. the ceiling is slowing falling down on strange objects from the past (a finer past, i might add) and none of our appliances were created post-y2k. the trouble is, finding a job is quite possibly the most disgusting process known to the bourgeoisie. actually... i don't really care.
what i do care about is lady jane's phenomenal blog. and what i also care about is what she wrote on that blog in regards to bringing back the world-renowned shuttlecock salesman to capult. i'm not, might i point out first and foremost, returning to stank-ass capult any time in the foreseeable future, e.g. before the third millennium, but i do propose that all move here, to the slightly odd imperial capital and start dance party revolutions on tuesday mornings. we need it, you need it, and i'm beginning to wonder. so lady jane, ahhh lady jane, wonderful, ginormous bottomed lady jane, is on point about my utter incapacity to maintain serious discussion about things of importance in ol' capult. the hopelessness was a bit too much for me. but now that i am back in the tawdry imperial capital everybody fucking asks me the most boring shit. nobody wants to know how fucking ridiculous the entire shebang was. and this is something that the half-court squire had better put some serious thought into. i think that part of the beast that is post-modern colonialism entails half-witted ex-pats sitting about and discussing with dead seriousness what is fucking best for a place that would be better off if they weren't there in the first place. and it's one thing to be a hypocrite, but it's another to deny it. daft.