it really just feels like there's nothing left to say. or rather, that there's nothing left in me worth saying. or maybe I'm just full up on things that aren't sayable?
what is this?
as my mind aimlessly ambles through time and space, I can sometimes feel a few brittle marbles clacking against each other:
are kate perry and zooey deschanel the same person?
does amy winehouse wear that beehive switch even when she's alone?
how can a gang of chumpsters like coldplay keep producing such great music?
is john mccain's cheek looking more swollen than before?
when did eating at the olive garden become the new "I shop at target" for celebrities?
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the strangeways, here we come
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