Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Rhys Lowe (OC)
(( PB: Ryan Dunn, faux-celeb ))

someone get this webpage an umbrella

You gotta admit it looks nice, though. The Internet Poltergeist has seemingly graced us with his presence, this afternoon. Of course, the sonoffabitch doesn't have the decency to tell me he updates my shit, until he knows I've already seen it, and then he sneaks an email into my inbox saying, "PS: CHECK UR INTERWEB." That's a direct quote, ladies and gentlemen. The Internet Poltergeist is not unlike a living cat macro, as well some of you out there know. I've been told that my inbox is starting to turn into a way to draw a response out of him and not me. Since when does the writer get less fanmail than his assistant?

(If he asks, that's not what I called him. He's a very competant individual who just happened to turn up at Dark Horse one day and demanded to be allowed to answer my emails. They didn't want to say yes, but I couldn't say no. At some point, he went from Answerer Of Email to Master Of Communications to Guy Who Does Lots Of Shit For Me to Brother From Another Mother. You can call him anything, as long as it's not late for dinner. Rim shot. Two wrongs don't make a right, but three rights make a left, and that's our show! Curtain.)

Sorry, I just had a dance break.

So. If you read this, you've probably been tricked, more than once, into reading Sofian's blog, too. Shameless pimping, shameless pimping. He doesn't need his own pimp. He's Wendy, he knows how to handle himself. Whatever he is, he's also a bastard and abandoning the apartment in the foreseeable future. What oh what does this agoraphobic (ha ha ha) couch potato do without his best buddy ol' pal ol' friend? I don't know, stretch out on the couch all the way. And watch movies.

What? Did you think this was about writing and work and a book I'm supposed to be working on? You poor, poor, misled sap. Drive? Non, my friend. We are blogeurs. Or something like that. I don't know. There's probably like...three pages of art sitting in the junk drawer of my brain that I could get on to paper right now. I don't suppose I can call anyone to come over and dictate a script, either, can I? I know, really? I can type up a blob, but I can't write my own work down. Sad, strange state of affairs. What, indeed, you ask, is this world comming to.

Another dance break. I groove. I stop grooving.

Maybe I'll call up the IP and tell him I need a to-do list for the week. That's always a good time, you know. A third of the stuff, if I'm lucky, will be easily done. The rest of it is shit I gotta figure out really good excuses to get out of. Even though it's stuff like "build a zombie baby military unit" or "make a Lego replica of your mom's friend", which, if you're anyone else, you know is understandably unlikely to be completed. Especially by this jerk, right here, who's been damned to Hell five times over but is still too slothful to get the heck down there. I don't know, maybe that's where I wanna be today. I bet they have the air conditioning on.

Aren't you glad you clicked on this link, in your favorites today? I bet you are, lucky reader.