When I was cruel.

In the passed two months, I haven't been able to listen to the final three minutes of Ron & Fez due to the fact that they end every show with Satellite Of Love, which, ironically, is how I got into Lou Reed. I try to time my XM listening sessions around the '48-52 minute-after-every-third-hour' mark. When I get lazy, or accidentally turn the show on towards the end, I either throw on a random Winamp track or immediately bring up my Myspace to allow another source of music to drown out what used to be my favorite Lou Reed song. I have held my cell phone in my hand at 9:00am, ready to call Ron & Fez to explain that their close-out song now kills me due to the good chance that I may have conceived my dead baby to it.

Speaking of which- babiesrus.com, make it possible to delete a goddamned baby registry, will you? I will not call, I refuse to do more than click. My inability to think about the topic for over thirty seconds handicaps me from making a phone call and destroying the main online reminder.

The whole 'ups and downs' gimmick actually exists. Who would've believed that? I've run out of Scrubs (my balancing medication) to watch, now the room takes over. In reality this ceiling has pretty much witnessed everything. I wish it would keep its mouth shut.

Growing up, I never understood somebody being upset or sad over a relationship that ended. My logic had been "You got to live it, be happy"- the whole "Better to have loved and lost" only simplified to a fifteen year old's mind (or made more complicated). Looking back, I can say that the experiences I've had give a twenty one year old me better ground to stand on for this topic- I just have less desire to talk or type about it right now, despite my constant thinking about it.

I had a great catch-up conversation with Anhvu today. Anhvu is an asian friend I've been associated with online for at least six years. He and I have heard all of each other's stories as pertains to our lives with females, although we sort of drifted during his Virginia Tech years. We're the future of poetry, thus the future of literature. Just think of those lucky saps who get to know us now.

'Sylvia Plath... what a cunt.'

Satellite Of Love may be lost to me, but I am not giving up Sweet Jane without a fight.

There are certain songs that will be laced with a specific period in my life, whether it be until the end of it or until a future season warrants more nostalgia. I'm sure that most people can relate to this dilemma. I can already predict which tracks will queue the feeling of this Logan Echolls-esque Spring of my 2007:

Babe - Glassjaw
Rocking Horse Road - Elvis Costello
Only The Noble - Debracadabra
Lawyers Guns & Money - Warren Zevon
Whispering Reef - The Rondo Brothers feat. Daryl Palumbo

I am trying to add Sweet Jane to that list, thus removing it from the dreadful Winter of early 2007 set (alongside the lost Satellite Of Love). The journey began by listening to it six straight times while driving this morning.

The above songs will carry a strand of this Spring that'll cause a feeling of sickness every time I hear them for a very long time. But right now, they're relaxing. It's worth the trade.

Tonight is the night I rejoin the group of friends I lost last Christmas. We will all be meeting to celebrate my birthday, giving us a reason to drink and reminisce and slap that martini glass down as we argue over Daryl Palumbo's voice. I almost verbed these bouts a 'debate', but 'argue' is much more accurate.

I will hopefully have a number of pictures tomorrow, along with a helluva headache and an ugly woman sleeping in my bed.



In devastating news- Veronica Mars is gone. The last good show left on the CW (after Gilmores announced their exit) is canceled.
The final few episodes were some of the best, the characters were at their peak.
The show had such an original style to it, with varying shades of green in every scene.
A lot of the actors outside of the main cast were awful, and I think that only highlighted the humor of the show. Part of the fun of watching it was awaiting the next Big Lebowski reference.

It was incredible while it lasted. You don't get good mystery on television- at all. It's "whose going to suffer a voting off this week?" or some other punishment that an identical reality show character had suffered the week before. The Lilly Cain mystery of season one is unparalleled, and was executed perfectly. Season two's bus crash proved that the show was no fluke. Compared to the brilliance of these first 44 episodes, season three could be considered unfocused. But, once again, the last few hours could have been the best of all.

Good writing is even rarer, and a character like Logan Echolls comes once every four hundred seasons in television.

What's left? Wrestling, I guess.
One things for sure- Tuesdays are lost forever.