| I so can't give a damn about Xanga . . . No matter how hard I try. But at least I can comment. |
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| You know, just because I remade my Xanga doesn’t mean anything. There are no prizes, there are no fucking cupcakes—you weren’t right about anything. Therefore, I must ask that you take the French’s lovely advice and “shut le hell up.”
This foundational entry, by the by, is not actually for the scrutinous eye; obviously, I’m not truthfully addressing anyone (nor do I ever intend to be addressing an audience in the very near future): This entry’s purpose is to aid in my search for a functional but aesthetically appealing—you see, I look at these Xanga things sort of as . . . toilettes, you see. (It must be have something to do with the yawning ocean of bullshit on these things, yes? [No, really, you’re too kind.]) And you must ask yourself, would you shit in a dingy, raunchy, ramshackle bucket over which you’re forced to squat and hover; or a nice, softly padded, clean . . .
Look at me going on about potties and feces on a post I don’t expect or wish you to read. Well, back to work. |
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