Ramblings

I'm a couple years behind on this Left Rights album, but I'm not anywhere close to satisfied with its duration. The songs are mostly all amazing, but none are a length that pleases me. I find myself repeating several almost constantly for an hour longer than the album actually lasts, because I require more of this aural earthquake. Jimmy Urine knows how to hook.
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There's been a new addition to the living organism tally in my household, in the form of a second feline companion. This one, however, is not to satiate me, as I've already obtained such. Needless to say, Elizabeth hasn't quite taken a liking to this intrusion. Initially, she had been passive; reacting to the turn of events as one would the news of a benign tumour, responding with apathetic acceptance. This was until the new one, dubbed Strange Puss by the CHUDs below (those familiar with Patrice O'Neal will understand the reasoning behind this name, and those familiar with my friends and I will understand why we're CHUDs) began to, as they say, "start shit." What has up until some days ago been pure aggression, in the form of vocal rumblings and wide-mouthed, raspy, territorial anguish, has devolved into piercing stares and the occasional punch in the face. These actions exchange between the two of them, neither being more at fault than the other. This may continue for some time, and I'm already anticipating such results for months into the future. My noir dove, dumpy pitch-black nightmare has had her Queen Bee status brought into question, and will not take this news lightly. As it stands she doesn't rest often when the two are directly sharing living space, which I'm sure means that both are unnaturally fatigued, and will require more real sleep (although, they're fucking cats, so they already get 90 hours' worth in a day). These are all predictions, though, and time will tell.
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I know it to be fact that my excitement regarding the new Deftones album, due the 13th of November, is not mine alone. So far their singles have been gold (as Chino has been known to spin lyrics into) and I await the fruits of others laborious journeys to enter my ears, repeatedly, over a long period of time.
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As stated in a less-than-elderly video of mine, I've begun collecting Ripley's Believe It Or Not! books, and I must say it's an investment I'm proud of. The strange is a fascination of mine (I just recently sent electronic correspondence to an Italian man who makes particularly gruesome and apocalyptic art, asking if it would be possible to acquire his pieces) and these books are exactly the right size to fit into my gaping maw. My emaciated oesophageal tunnel, metaphorically bereft of sustenance, in the absence of this candy.
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I'm sure there is a large group of individuals who follow my online doings and think, consciously or otherwise, that my use of vocabulary is a means of showing off, as though I'm displaying some sort of verbal feathers, warding off predators in a dazzling display of meaningless self-indulgence. Or mindless (see what I did there? Yeah, you fucking do, dick). Let me reassure everyone reading that I try my utmost to facilitate this manner of speech as much as possible in my day-to-day, and I treat it as a form of mental exercise before anything else. My career choices don't present much chance to stretch the analytical or verbally creative parts of my brain, so I have to find ways to keep my mind sharp in different ways.

That's all for now.

P.S. Apparently Blogspot reads this, and heeded my complaint regarding the text-input section, because there is now a scroll bar. Good on you, sky-master of the blogosphere.