Anthony Weiner: For the past several years as I have watched anti-intellectualism take over American politics, I have looked to you and the few others like you for hope and inspiration – hope that our political system will one day be rescued from the paradigmatic conservative shift we have recently seen, and inspiration to care and to speak. Your words, your passion, your charm, and your humility have singled you out as one of the finest representatives serving our country, and I envy every one of your constituents.

But now that is all called into question, because now you are revealed as a liar, a cheater, a scummy person. So I am in crisis. What do I do? Do I stand by you – do I try to convince myself that the fact that you lied to the country, and humiliated and betrayed your wife does not impede your ability to honestly govern? I can’t do that. You are a liar. It is in your character. So why should I trust you to run my country? But then again, when you are helping to run this country, you fight for the good and the just. But how am I now to trust that it isn’t all a farce? Or that while you fight for the worthy many in the public eye, you don’t fight for the greedy few privately? I am torn. Months ago when Chris Lee was caught up in a similar scandal, he immediately admitted to his wrongs and resigned. I imagine my response was something like “Yupp. Good on you. Get the fuck out.” And at least he was honest about the whole thing (or maybe trying to prevent a bigger fallout, but still). I don’t want to ask you to step aside.

I want the you above to keep fighting for what’s right. But I feel the you below is unfit to lead.

R. Budd Dwyer comes to mind. I believe he was an honest man. I’m thinking of you Budd.

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I don’t really know enough about WikiLeaks or its history to defend or condemn it, however it seems like anyone in the world ever hates the group and its leader Julian Assange. For instance, some are demanding his assassination. Yikes. I understand that some criticism has come from civil rights and journalist groups, most of whom support the organization overall, regarding the dangerous implication of civilians around the world. From Wikipedia:

In 2010 Amnesty International joined several other human rights groups criticizing WikiLeaks for not adequately redacting the names of Afghan civilians working as U.S. military informants from files they had released. Julian Assange responded by offering Amnesty International staff the opportunity to assist in the document vetting process. When Amnesty International appeared to express reservations in accepting the offer Assange disclaimed the group as “people who prefer to do nothing but cover their asses.” Other groups that joined Amnesty International in criticizing WikiLeaks subsequently noted that, despite their displeasure over the issue of civilian name redaction, they generally appreciated WikiLeaks work. (Source)

At any rate, the recent release of something like 250,000 “cables” has caused a huge uproar in the US. Of course the question on my mind and every American’s mind: what the fuck is a cable? Seriously, why is no one asking this? Is that like, what, an email? An IM? Isn’t a cable like… morse code? So first of all, what’s a cable. Second of all, in response to the leak, Hillary Clinton said this:

So I guess what I’m asking is, who are we really mad at? Or who should we be mad at? Should we be mad at WikiLeaks for revealing that US diplomats called Iranian “President” Mahmoud Ahmadinejad  Hitler and French President Nicolas Sarkozy a “naked emperor,” or should we  be mad that US diplomats called Iranian “President” Mahmoud Ahmadinejad  Hitler and French President Nicolas Sarkozy a “naked emperor” (source)? Should we be mad that WikiLeaks revealed that the Yemeni government claimed responsibility for US drone strikes to cover for us, or should we be mad that our government lied to the world by allowing the Yemeni government to claim responsibility for US drone strikes to cover for us? The list of sensitive material revealed goes on and on.

But is there something more at issue that I am missing? I feel like there must be. I understand that the government has to keep secrets, but in this digital age that’s becoming quite a challenge. Regardless, it doesn’t seem as if the information leaked in this round or past rounds of releases was really keeping us safe. It’s not like WikiLeaks published cables that say things like “The nuclear code is ‘password,’ username ‘admin’” or “Kryptonite will kill the President” (I have it on good authority that it will) or “We’re attacking Osama’s base on Thursday.” Doesn’t seem like anything of that sort (but if WikiLeaks does or would release information like that, then critics of their lack of editorial standards are correct in their criticism). It just kind of seems like everyone is mad because Mike sent a photoshopped picture of the boss’ head on a woman’s body to everyone in the office, and someone showed the boss, and now Mike is really embarrassed because that was really silly. If the US government is so concerned about foreign leaders finding out the embarrassing things that diplomats are calling them, then maybe we should stop doing that. Also maybe diplomacy can be made less of a facade and more an honest practice. As far as past leaks go, if my government is responsible for the deaths of 15,000 civilians in a foreign country, I just plain want to know.

So yeah, just a few thoughts. Really though, am I missing something? I want to be able to form a definitive and informed opinion on this.

Someone help me do that. Oh also, Julian Assange is really creepy looking:

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I have had the weirdest morning.

I woke up just before ten, hopped in my car, and headed off to Medway to DJ an engagement party at the VFW. Its fall, and fall rules, so the drive was awesome. Except for the fact that cars kept on zipping by me as if I was going 55. It was really odd, being as I was actually going a rather brisk 75, already ten miles over the speed limit. How fast do people drive? What the hell? Weird thing #1.

I reached exit 19 on route 495 and decided to stop by The Dollar Tree to get my Mom a ten dollar gift card for her birthday. If you’re presently thinking either of the following things, you’re wrong and I’ll tell you why: 1) You’re a shitty son because you only got your Mom a ten dollar gift card for her birthday ; or 2) You’re a shitty son because you got your mom a gift card to the fucking Dollar Tree for her birthday. The thing is, my mom loves the Dollar Tree, and I find it odd that there exist people who don’t, being as everything is a dollar. Christ. If that is what heaven is like, I’m going to start going to church and hating the gays, because I want in. Secondly, I didn’t get my mom a ten dollar gift card really – it’s more like I got her a $1,000,000 giftcard. Let me explain: ten dollars at the Dollar Tree will get you approximately as much as $1,000,000 would get you at, say, Kohls, because, let me reiterate this, everything is a fucking dollar. Except for the gift card. That was ten.

At any rate, all of this is irrelevant to the weirdness of my morning. The second weird thing did, however, occur at this palace of savings. I forgot my chapstick in Boston, which I still need because I have the kind of luck where I finish accutane just before I actually need to start using chapstick to guard my sensitive lips from the biting cold of fall, my least favorite season. So I grabbed a two pack of stick (which unsurprisingly cost just a dollar), and brought it to the register. The cashier rang me up and then threw on his alliterative hat, broke into song and dance, and uttered the oddest combination of words I have ever heard: “Do you want me to bag your balm?” No sentence has ever made me as instantly uncomfortable as that. That’s weird thing #2 – not my discomfort, but the words “Bag your balm.”

I ran home, coddled my dog, stole some food from my parents house, said hi to my Dad, and was off to the DJ job.

When I arrived at the VFW, the parking lot was empty, normal because I was a few minutes early. I started unloading my equipment as a friendly looking old couple approached.

“Hey there!” I happily greeted them.
“Hello.”
“Are you guys here for the engagement party?”
“Engagement party…? Who’s getting engaged?”
“Uuh. Aimee something… So you’re not here for that?”
“No.”
“Oh. Is there another event what are you here for?”
“A funeral.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“Jesus is right.”

Weird thing #3.

The rest of the funeral procession then came barreling into the parking lot. I hustled to get my equipment back in my truck and get the blazer out of the way so as not to disturb them. I sat in my car for a bit, feeling as I always do at funerals: underdressed and out of place. Everyone was wearing full suites, and I was wearing jeans, a shirt, tie, and sweater. Once again: feeling as I always do at funerals. Turns out their fun-filled event was at the hall in the basement and the engagement party was up top. So naturally I spent the next ten minutes directing people into the funeral, because everyone kept trying to go upstairs.

Still no sign of the engaged couple.

I once again unloaded my equipment and moved it into the hall on the first floor. Scoping it out, I was trying to determine where I was supposed to set up my equipment. I went over to the kitchen and asked the cook and the server.

“Hey I’m the DJ for the engagement  party, do you know how they want me to setup my equipment?”
“Mike – do you know how they want him to setup for the party tonight?”

Mike comes over (that might have been his name… what ever).

“The engagement party or – “
“The engagement party.”
“Yeah that’s this morning.”
“Right. At 11:30.”
“Yeah that’s been cancelled.”
“What?”
“Yeah they called late last night. They had to rush her to the hospital, something about blood clots in her lungs”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Do you know hold she was?”
“Was?! Did she die?”
“Oh I dunno, probably not.”
“Oh. No I don’t know how old she was… well… thanks.”

Weird thing #4.

Oh also, on the way back to my parents house I saw a three-car rear-ender and another funeral procession. What the hell?

So what do I take from this? There is a God, and he wanted me to have a weird morning so I would start blogging again because he really, really misses my blogging. Also, there is a heaven, and it is the Dollar Tree.

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When I first started driving, I developed a nasty habit of absolutely hating cyclists who rode their bicycles in the road. As far as I was concerned, the road was built for cars, not wimpy bikes. There’s a sidewalk, idiot. Friends would scold me for entering into a rehearsed profanity-laden rant upon the sight of a road-dwelling cyclist.

When I got to school last year, ditching my car for a bike, I quickly found that riding it on the sidewalk was nearly impossible, while riding it in the streets, among the tangles of traffic, was quite satisfying. My attitude quickly changed with my behavior – this once cyclist hating cynic had become the very motorist’s enemy I so loathed. No longer did I hate cyclists; that hatred had shifted to those behind wheels. Both on my bike and as a pedestrian, I developed the habit of ignoring traffic signals and going my own way at my own will. This is mostly because I am extremely tough and generally don’t allow “rules” to tell me how to live my life because I’m above that and mostly a badass sometimes often.

Fast forward to now: I am living off-campus in my own house with my best college friends (if you’re wondering how that is, it blows; if you think that’s odd, it’s because I was lying: it fucking rules) and have brought my car (a rebuilt 1964 convertible model X coupe de ville monster truck with sunroof and magnaflow exhaust) along with me. I don’t tend to use it much, but tonight some of us made a 10-minute roadtrip to Target (sorry about all the parentheticals – what was right next to the Target? AN OLD COUNTRY BUFFET. HELLO!) I  had to drop some stuff off at my friend Matt’s dorm afterword, so I headed down Comm Ave towards Danielson hall. All along the way cyclists and pedestrians cut in between and road along side me, rekindling the nerve of the presence I once so detested but had become a part of.

The odd part is even though I am now sympathetic to the plight of the pedestrian and cyclist, I still hate them just as much. And even though I am too a motorist, when I come from the cyclist or pedestrian end of this spectrum, I hate motorists as well.

This obviously prompts a serious question: Which mode of transportation makes me feel most like a man?

The obvious answer:

My sweet hog, obv.

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A few weeks ago Adria and I ventured into the depths of PetCo on a whim after a shopping extravaganza at Best Buy. While perusing the adorable rodent selections, I happened upon a tank full of albino mice. Their cuteness joined with their $2.99 price tag and I knew I had to have one. A week or so later Erin and I returned and for three dollars brought home Lucy Intheskywithdiamonds Gwozdz-Piccirillo. I was in love, she was adorable, and we quickly became best friends.

The Internet told me that female mice grow depressed without companions. As it is rarely wrong, and because I wanted Lucy to be happy, I heeded the Internet’s advice and went to PetSmart a few days later. This time Dear Prudence (she goes by Prudence) and Julia came home, and after a few days of fighting, warmed up to Lucy. We were a family.

The girls.

Then out of nowhere, something didn’t feel right. Suddenly I was worried I couldn’t provide for them. Dolling out a tablespoon of corn/seed mixture and giving them water everyday suddenly seemed like a daunting task. But I knew it wasn’t. I suddenly worried that I wouldn’t have enough energy to love each of them equally. But I knew I did. I diagnosed myself with postpartem depression, a diagnosis I feel I have the authority to make based on the Wikipedia article I read that may or may not have told me that I in fact do not have postpartem. Either way, the idea of not having a way to rationalize away my irrational anxiety over three MICE is far too troubling, so I’m sticking with postpartum.

An epic battle was waged in my mind, two forces clashed: one with a penchant for furry, adorable creatures with tiny adorable hands and one that preferred the simplicity of no dependents, even if those dependents are rodents that require minimal care and attention. It went back and forth for days, each side pulling ahead of the other and then falling back again. I loved these mice, I really did. I loved holding them, I loved watching them. I hated smelling them. They smelt like mice, and mice smell like shit. But they were cute. Notice I started using the past tense regarding the mice? That’s because the irrational side won, and I returned them to their respective pet stores today. It was sad, but I feel that I did the right thing. Though they brought me bursts of intense happiness and joy, and though Erin really loved them, for the most part their presence just made me anxious, and I can’t handle anxiety, even if its source makes hardly any sense at all.

I felt like a failure returning them. I felt like I had made a promise to them and broken it. Ashamed of my inability to be a rationally-thinking, caring pet owner, I lied to the clerks and told them that it was because my girlfriend was allergic. That’s almost kind of true a little bit almost sort of. I made sure that the pet stores didn’t kill returned animals. Even though at the worst patch of my postpartum, I considered letting them out into the wild. Glad I didn’t do that.

On the way to the store to return the ladies, they kept on sticking their noses out of the holes in the boxes. It was freaking adorable, and absolutely heartbreaking.

I had a pretty traumatizing experience overall at PetSmart. When I was walking in with the box containing the Julia and Prudence, I was trailed by a gaggle of little girls who reached me at the register.

“Hey Mister! What’s in the box!?”
“Oh well they’re mice, but I’ve got to return them. My girlfriend is allergic…” (I was even too ashamed to admit the true reason to a group of little baby girls).
“Aww that’s too bad!”
“Yeah… You guys can have them if you want!”

The mom cut in with a laugh and a smile:

“Hah thanks, but we already have hamsters at home.”

Then a man waiting in line at the register cut in:

“My snake would love them!”

I walked away in horror.

I found a clerk who could return the pets and explained to her that my girlfriend was allergic. She didn’t buy it at all. And she wanted me to know. She took my receipt and wrote a note on it, then told me to bring it back to the register. I read the note in horror, for she had scrawled “Does not like” as my reason for return. I was heartbroken. I loved these mice. I can’t adequately explain why I couldn’t keep them, but I wanted and want them and loved them. But I couldn’t keep them. That woman. What a bitch.

In summary, the anxiety of caring for three tiny, adorable, little mice was too much for me to handle. Baby humans are way less cute than mice and require a million times more attention. Therefore, there is no way I’ll ever be able to have a child. The Piccirillo name dies with me. Unless Jenna marries a dude who takes her last name. But that would make him a loser.

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“The Suburbs?” More like “The Suckberbs.” I bought this album because they wrote that song for the superbowl thing but all the songs on this album aren’t that one and suck. I tried listening to it a couple of times but every time i was like “ehh” and i turned it off, if you buy it you wont even make it past the 3rd song, neither did I. Overall, i give it a 12/223.

The Arcade Boring yawning just like I did when I listened to this album which is boring

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A few friends and I headed out to the abandoned factory/warehouse in Franklin, Massachusetts and spent the day shooting this short film. With a $200.00 budget, I am pretty pleased with how it came out. Please share it if you enjoy it. [Watch it in 720p if your internet connection will allow you to!]

Challenged to protect the one he loves from the horror of the undead, a man resorts to brutal violence. Desensitized and blinded by his routine, he swiftly takes gruesome action when a noisy intruder enters his ruined fortress. However, he is left doubting that his victim was a monster at all. The line between dead and undead, between his actions and those of the plagued, blurs in his uncertainty. He asks the question, at what point is death the best protection?

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People lie. It’s almost always wrong, but there are certain inconsequential cases where a little lie is admissible. My friends Pat and Stiefel recently told one such inconsequential lie to Anthony (affectionately referred to as Tone), namely whether or not a girl wanted him at her house. Long story short, she didn’t they thought that would hurt his feelings, so they just told him they were going home. Unfortunately, Tone and I don’t quite see eye to eye on the admissibility of lies that are painlessly unimportant (and even well intentioned), so he produced what could be described as a “hoopla” of considerable size over a lie of negligible importance.

In response to this hoopla, we pressed him on his own honesty. In our discussion we established three principle facts about Tone’s unflinching lying stance:

1. Lying is always wrong (true).
2. Inconsequential lies should always be blown up into a huge fucking deal (not so much).
3. Tone does not lie (oooohh….).

Tone was very adamant about that point: he does not lie. Well this is a pretty silly proclamation because everybody lies. Even sillier than that would be for Tone to promise – including a hearty handshake – four friends $100.00 each if he is caught in a lie within the next three years.

It didn’t even take three weeks.

Fast forward to tonight. We bet Tone a pack of cigarettes that we can break into his house in 20 minutes (I don’t smoke – I just enjoy breaking into Tone’s house). Within just a few minutes after starting the battle royale we were sitting with Tone in his kitchen as he racked his brain for our point of entry. He narrowed it down to the garage, but still wasn’t certain which of the four architectural orifices (<awesome) we entered through. In a typical and somewhat juvenile attempt to trick us into revealing our secret he matter-of-factly stated, “Oooooohhhh I know how you guys got in… Yeah I know how you got in.”

We didn’t fall for that. We asked him how, he wouldn’t say.

Now this is where things get important: Tone claimed to know for certain that he knew how we got into the house. This is obviously untrue being as there was no way he could know that for certain, but it is only a lie if he knows that he is intentionally misreprenting the truth. The truth in question here is that he in fact did not know how we got in. To state that he did know, knowing that he truly did not, would be an intentional misrepresentation of this truth. So if it can be proven that he in fact knew that he did not know but stated that he did regardless, then Tone has lied.

So I pressed him, the money in sight. I asked him “Wait – Tone – Do you know for certain how we got in?” He began to flimsily stumble over his words, before one of my friends interrupted. I silenced the friend – “Shut up, shut up, shut up – I’m about to get $100.00.” What I needed to hear was that Tone knew that he did not know how we got in.

He immediately realized what I was doing. He smiled and smugly offered “I know you guys got in through the garage.”

“Shit.”

I thought he had outsmarted me. Even though I knew he had lied, he had craftily covered it up so that it could not be proven.

But then he proved it for me.

After we finally told him our exact method for getting in, he said “Yeah yeah that’s how I thought you guys got in, before – when you pressed me on it that’s why I didn’t want to say that I knew, because that would be a lie.”

Hold on a tick. What was that? Did you just admit to lying? Hold on, let’s check the proof.

1. If Tone lied, he owes three friends and I $100.00 each.
2. To lie is to intentionally misrepresent the truth.
3. Tone stated that he knew how we got in his house.
4. If Tone did not know how we got in his house, then he misrepresented the truth.
5. Tone did not know how we got in his house.
6. Tone misrepresented the truth
7. If Tone knew he did not know how we got in his house, then he intentionally misrepresented the truth.
8. Tone stated (after the fact) that he did not want to say that he knew how we got in his house (even though his action did not correspond with his eventual desire) because to say so would have been a lie.
9. If Tone lied, as he stated he did, then Tone did not know how we got in his house.
10. Tone intentionally misrepresented the truth.
11. Tone lied.
12. Tone owes three friends and I $100.00 each.

Of course he rejected this because the thing about Tone is that he knows even more than me, which is surprising being as I know everything about everything that ever is, was, or will be.

Not to commit an Ad Populum (oooohhh excuseeee meee), but if you have actually read through the 845 words so far (yeah you just read that much), please vote in the poll to indicate your acceptance or rejection of the above argument. Tone is ignorant enough of logical fallacies that he might just man up, admit he was wrong, and give us our money if he looses this poll. Please vote as if Tone were obligated by divinity to honor his word.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

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“True inspiration is impossible to fake.” Traditionally when I see a film I am truly inspired by, I run home from the theater and immediately crunch out a lengthy blog post about its personal and universal importance. Inception, perhaps more than any other film, immediately left me with that burning desire to entice the world to rush to the theater. However, I was so inspired by, so in awe of the intricacies of Inception that writing a mere post about the film wasn’t enough – I wanted to do more than that. My intent was to write a lengthy guide, complete with dream maps and universe definitions, detailing every last corner of the film. I wanted this post to be a one-stop guide to all that Inception is. So I waited. I needed to see the film two or three more times before I could truly count myself as an expert, before I could truly do Christopher Nolan’s masterpiece the justice it deserved. But as I followed through with my plan, the film fell apart. And so too did my inspiration. Inception may be the most disappointing film I have ever seen.

My second viewing introduced me to all kinds of new subtleties I hadn’t noticed the first time – details that enhanced the beauty of the film’s structure and illuminated the extent of Nolan’s genius. However, that second viewing allowed me to focus more, to look past the dazzling visuals, to be bored by the lengthy gun fights, and to be aware of the lack of significant character development save a couple leads. Worst of all, holes began to burn in the plot. But still – I held on hope. I trust Christopher Nolan.

By the end of the third viewing, I was in full denial. I grabbed and scraped for the torn fabric of Inception’s universe, desperate to mend it with assumptions and conjecture, but ultimately, I failed. But it wasn’t really my fault. The film simply could not stand under the weight of its layers and ultimately collapsed because it presented a world defined by specific and unbending rules that became muddled and inconsistent as the film trudges along. The concept was brilliant, as was the wire plot, but the execution was, ever so depressingly so, not perfect enough. A film of the depth of Inception needs to be perfect, or else the whole thing crumbles, just as a dream without a dreamer.

(This post is not intended to be about the specifics of Inception’s shortcomings, but merely a meditation on the heartbreak of robbed inspiration. I’ll gladly expound on those specifics, but they’re really not the point).

What frightens me the most about my Inception experience is that I feel like it has injured my relationship with Christopher Nolan. I have always reluctantly answered with his name when asked my favorite director, that reluctance coming only from the fact that having the director of The Dark Knight as your favorite director is so very typical. But still. I have always admired Nolan for his intelligence, precision, and courage. Saying Inception is Christopher Nolan’s least intelligent film really isn’t a huge insult, because to be the least intelligent of Christopher Nolan’s films is to be far more intelligent than most other film’s coming out these days.

So where does this leave my opinion of Inception? Inception is one of, if not the, best movie this summer – it’s a new breath of fresh air in a season of shitty sequels, remakes, re-imaginings,  and Adam Sandler. Inception soars as a complex, intriguing, deep, and, yes, intelligent crime thriller set in the human mind. However, it is marred by sloppy storytelling and missed opportunities, dark marks on the otherwise brilliant career of my favorite director. I am still inspired by Inception, if not for it’s ability to present a truly cohesive narrative, than for the courage of it’s creator to pursue such an ambitious project.

However, as I have said, Inception is perhaps the most disappointing film I have ever seen – only because it skyrocketed me to the height of genuine inspiration and then dropped me through the Swiss cheese that is its plot.

I genuinely hope that I am completely wrong. I genuinely hope that the reason that I am not fully accepting Inception’s plot is because I am far less intelligent than its creator, that I am unable to comprehend it, or simply that I am unable to realize that each of these shortcomings is a precisely executed plot device aimed at highlighting the film’s true nature. I really hope its  that last one. I wish I could talk to Chris Nolan…

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I mean that. This summer may actually be killing me. Everyday some quirky new ailment crops up for me to complain about.

For starters, god graced me with chronic acne. Modern medicine, in turn, graced me with accutane. You might know accutane from those commercials with lawyers telling you you’re entitled to a settlement if it basically killed you or otherwise destroyed your health. It’s no surprise that the commercial says that being as accutane basically kills you or otherwise destroys your health. I would say that I’m lucky to be experiencing all the side effects but the worst one, but then again, the worst side effect is suicide. Frankly I think the reason suicide is a side effect of accutane is because people can’t bare the laundry list of others. Life isn’t all that grand when you burn through twenty chapsticks a day and your lips still peal off hourly. The constipation and dryness aren’t fun either. Oh and best of all, the medicine dries out your nostrils so that they shed every few hours or so, giving the appearance of chronic bloody booger syndrome. That and the nosebleeds make one’s nostrils a very treacherous place. Also the inaomnia, combined with my already irregular summer sleep habits makes for one sleepless me.

Additionally, accutane causes some irregular tissue growth so that if you were to get, say, an ingrown toenail, the skin around it would become inflamed in a very intense way emmiting  some very foul odors. I would say that didn’t happen to me except for that’s  exactly what happened to me. And of course, in characteristic me fashion, I wasn’t so worried about it and thought it would be fine if I just let it heal on its own, during it in water every night and throwing a bandaid on it. Turns out, totally not true. That doesn’t work. It’s  also probably not a good idea to walk half the length of Manhatten with an ingrown – my bloody sock can attest to that. The foot doctor who finally removed the ingrown part also let me know that in the future its not a good idea to try to operate on it at home yourself. I’ll heed this in the future.

Aside from all that goodness my summer diet consists mostly of soda, fast food, donuts, ice cream, and pizza. Oh wait – that’s my diet year round. Nm.

I also just found out that my girlfriend has conjunctivitus – supposedly the not contagious kind, but tonight my friends noticed my eyes looking a little red. Then again that could be because I spend every night in a basement fishbowled with cigarette smoke. That’s also really good for my health.

At any rate, if I don’t make it through the summer, in lieu of flowers, please make a donation on my behalf to the Ryan Piccirillo Memorial Medway Cable Access Cable Studio or towards paying my share of the rent next year. Unless they find a subletter. I’ll just try not to die. It’ll make things easier in the long run.

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