Continued

Where the hell was I?

The main two things I enjoy about watching the debates—first, the Wheel of Fortune aspect of the debates (see, there was a reason for the blog title after all). That is that when you're at home watching Wheel of Fortune, all the puzzles are glaringly obvious, and you can't believe how dumb the contestants are. You don't consider the fact that those contestants are freaking out- there they are, with Pat Sajak talking to them, hundreds of people watching them and millions judging them at home. I'm surprised they can remember their name. As a recovered actor, I can remember millions of times when those lines that I had been saying every day for three months, which should be flowing steadily out of my mouth, are gone to some far-off galaxy, having a glass of wine, leaving me to fall on my metaphorical ass.

Oh yeah. So, I think I would be killer at the debates. I sit at home watching, and I always think of the Great Response that would be the greatest thing to hear them say. I'm that way when I watch panels (e.g. Real Time with Bill Maher) as well– these people are all very well versed in their specialties, but not particularly skilled at saying the right thing at the right time. When they do speak eloquently, it's such a wonderfully amazing thing. That has happened on occasion on the Daily Show, when Jon Stewart starts debating some politico, and you think to yourself, something special is happening here. Most of presidential debates, however, don't meet that mark. The only ones who say anything inspiring or exciting are Kucinich and Biden, and they wouldn't be saying those things either if they were the frontrunners. Clinton, Obama, and Edwards have to be very careful with what they say, as any spontaneous, passionate response will inevitably offend one demographic or another who just want one of Them to be the next president.

The other thing I love in debates is the kind of corollary moments to the ones I mentioned above– it's the normal people, standing up to the mics. They're so nervous, they have great difficulty not tripping over their words... they are usually questioning some integral part of our country, and once you're face to face with these amazing politicians, I could only imagine how hard it would be to stand up to them. At the AFL-CIO debate, for instance. Now, I hate the AFL-CIO—I'm not that fond of unions in general—but there was one man who stood up and told his story... he was an industrial worker, and was injured on the job. Two years later the company he worked for declared bankruptcy, absolving them of any responsibility to pay him disability or severance. Unable to work and dependent on government health care, his wife is now too old to care for herself. He has no way, no matter how important she is to him, to take care of her now.

It's incredible to think how much courage it must have taken this man to tell his story. This wasn't some power-hungry college student vying for fifteen seconds in the spotlight. This was just some guy who wanted answers. He wanted to find someone that could lead America into an age where he could be proud to live here again. The politicians (I won't name names, but it's on YouTube) replied with a canned, rehearsed answer that was basically "I feel your pain, if you vote for me I'll help somehow," and they were even booed for not being able to be human long enough to convince the voters that these candidates are not Americans, they're oligarchs pleading for us to join their side, if only because they're the closest thing we'll ever get to a friend in the White House. But none of them, not even Biden, who shrugged off a question about a lost spouse to make a stump speech despite himself having lost his wife, have had the courage to say something human. I'll keep watching, though, and I think one of them will soon. I just hope it's not too late. I hope they don't get those stars in their eyes, leaving us sitting at home, uncomfortably aware of what they should have said but didn't.

Wheel of Fortune

You know, I like blogger in that it doesn't cost anything, isn't on MySpace, and is free. That being said, I actually own some really nice blogging software, the problem is that in order to use it to its fullest capacity I would need 1) internet at home and 2) a dotmac account, the two of which combined would cost me $60 a month, more or less, just so I could write blogs that nobody would read. Sure, I'd have the internet at home, but I'm not really much of an internet user. I check my email regularly, and I like to read reviews on things I might like to buy, but really the only other thing I've found I do on the internet is look up free porn. While it's certainly an entertaining endeavor, it's not really a vital part of my life, and if I'm not even willing to pay $10 a month for the porn itself, I'm certainly not going to pay $60 a month to access it.

One thing I've been relying heavily on the internet for recently, however, is watching presidential debates. I've really been getting into them. That, and interviews with the candidates. It's like reality TV, with a dozen or so goofballs going through all these ridiculous contests, taking swipes at each other while still pretending they need to work together as a team, all for this great final prize of being the leader of the Free World (at least the part of it between L.A. and New England). With the writers strike going on, they should just have weekly debates with the candidates, and just advertise the hell out of it during reruns of Two and a Half Men. Christ, if they kept it going all the way to November, we might get as many people voting for the next president as we get voting for The Bachelor.

The main two things I enjoy about watching the debates—first, the Wheel of Fortune aspect of the debates (see, there was a reason for the blog title after all). That is that when you're at home watching Wheel of Fortune, all the puzzles are glaringly obvious, and you can't believe how dumb the contestants are. You don't consider the fact that those contestants are freaking out- there they are, with Pat Sajak talking to them, hundreds of people watching them and millions judging them at home. I'm surprised they can remember their name. As a recovered actor, I can remember millions of times when those lines that I had been saying every day for three months, which should be flowing steadily out of my mouth, are gone to some far-off galaxy, having a glass of wine, leaving me to fall on my metaphorical ass.

Crap, I'm out of time. I'll write a Part 2 later. Toodles.

Straidar

There are so many tests people come up with to determine if someone's gay. Well, now that being gay is chic, what about ways to determine if someone is not gay? I'll start: if you see a happy straight couple walking down the street and you feel the need to taunt them and call them "breeders," you're not gay. You're a fucking prick. Every ethnic and religious group has their fair share of assholes. I've seen black people call white people "cracker," Latinos calling Anglos "gringo," dumb people calling smart people "nerd." All of those people are fuckwads. That being said, they all have one thing that gay people don't: if the entire world was composed of just black people, we'd be just fine. People further from the equator would lose their color over time (they already did once), but there would be no short-term consequence of an all-black, all-latino, all-dumb world.

If everyone in the world were suddenly gay, humanity would cease to exist within eighty years.

So that makes me a gay-hater, right? Just like if I'm not particularly fond of vegetables, I must hate food. Gay people have all sorts of genuine problems to deal with in their life. And every time someone comes prancing into the mall wearing skintight see-through clothes and squealing with a lisp, they become one more challenge that gay people have to face. I've got a secret for all you flamers out there: I get it, you're a teenage schoolgirl trapped in a man's body. You know what? Every time I see a teenage schoolgirl dressed like a whore squealing in the mall, I want to kick her in the teeth until she forgets her middle name. There are two reasons why I don't: I respect people's ability to express themselves, no matter how misguided they may be, but more importantly, eventually those schoolgirls will grow up to be self-respecting women with consideration for people around them.

My roommate acts like a flaming gay man. She has a lisp, she's flighty, she spends all her time doing her hair and checking to see if her ass looks big, and shops for the lattest slutty clothes on sale at Forever 21. Once she was reprimanded at work because her tits fell out of her halter top and she couldn't even figure out what she did wrong. My roommate is fucking retarded. So why would I have any sensitivity for a grown man acting like my idiot roommate? All the affirmative action in the world cannot protect a grown man who wears clown makeup from being a failure. Christ, even Eddie Izzard dresses appropriately when he's in a film.

So it's not your being gay that offends me. Its your acting like a 12 year old. We stopped playing house years ago, we went out and got jobs and a life. But you clearly don't care what I think, so think about this instead: every time you're out talking trash to someone for not being straight, you just added one more step for real gay people to climb before reaching equality.

Oh, and those kids that the breeders are having? A third of them will be gay. You're welcome.

Thanks to Brandy for her contribution to this blog.

Why I volunteer for kitchen duty

I could go into some long-winded diatribe about how bad my roommate is at cleaning, but wouldn't a concrete example be more effective? The dishwasher. She doesn't clean off dishes first, doesn't pre-rinse, just dumps them into a pile in the dishwasher, and hits start. Considering how filthy the dishes are after they've run through the dishwasher, I'm not entirely positive that she adds detergent.

But what I'd like to share with you today is how she unloads the dishes. You would think I would like a roommate who unloads the dishwasher. But then, you have to understand that I'm the type of person who actually separates my silverware by size, and doesn't stack plastic and ceramic dishes together. I'm not clean, per se, I'm just organized. And that's my picadillo, I understand that. But this woman unloads the bottom by throwing everything into one cupboard, whether it's pots, pans, tupperware, anything. She dumps the silverware caddy into one drawer without separating them (even though she has a silverware tray that has the different slots labeled– my theory is that an ex-boyfriend bought it for her in a futile effort to get her to care). As for the top rack... well, I took a picture but it's not uploading so let me just describe it to you. These are all the things that she put in the top cupboard last time she unloaded the dishwasher. As a basis of comparison, when I clean, that's where I put the cups.

Top row of cupboard (left to right): pyrex mixing bowl. Ice cube tray.2 bowls. 3 saucers. A plate.
Second row: 2 more bowls, same size as on top row. A cup. The cutting board. A glass.
Third row: She doesn't use plates, so here are where all the plates are that I put in the cupboard. There are also several cups that were already there. Then she put in 2 more bowls, same size. A divided serving plate, and along the raised divider she has balanced a mason jar lid and two large cups. 2 travel mugs. One more saucer, on top of which she put a pickle jar.

If you're not quite grasping this, I'll email you the picture. Try drawing it in your mind. Here's a fun game: go into your kitchen and ask yourself: where am I going to put the ice tray? Or the cutting board? How about the pickles?

One can only hope, with her cleaning skills, that the double-wide she will inevitably inhabit has sufficient space for her to fit the whole fucking refrigerator in that tray under the stove.

Have some fries with that, tubby

You know why there are so many ludicrously fat people in this country? Because we're not allowed to call them fat. Some jock kid gave them one too many wedgies because they were too pudgy for gym class, and now they're on the affirmative action boat. Earlier today I passed by one of my fat coworkers waiting at the elevator. I went down one flight of stairs to the break room. A couple minutes later she waddled in. I was half-tempted to tell her "you know what, I think I may have figured out what you're doing wrong." It actually takes less time to take the stairs, and once you're down there, you'll just be sitting in a chair for ten minutes, so I'm sure you'll have time to catch your breath.

My fat friends make fun of me for taking dance classes. So I should be entitled to call them out when they need an armrest to get out of their chair. I take dance classes because it's a fun way to keep in shape, jackass. I walk two miles to work every morning, and it actually takes less time than waiting for the MAX. Instead of walking to Saturday market, I jog there. It's faster, and I get more exercise. You picking up a pattern? Instead of eating burgers every night, I make a casserole and save some money. Instead of getting a coke at work, I buy a chocolate milk. You don't have to be a jock, or a gymnast, or a yuppie with a gym membership to stay in shape. Just be active.

So I'm not going to backpedal because people make the excuse that some people are just born heavier. I wasn't born thin. I've just been active my entire life. And I'm terrible at sports, but that's never stopped me. I play video games all the time, I have a day job where I just sit at a desk, and I'm quite fond of hamburger helper. I've certainly got more fat on me than is biologically necessary, but my gut doesn't hang over my belt and I can jog a mile or two without needing an IV. You're fucking fat. Deal with it. I don't mean "cope with it and accept it," I mean fix your fucking problem. And it's not because you're going to cost government healthcare money when you get diabetes. You will, but it's not like I see you on the street and think 'there goes my FICA.' I don't care about that. What I'm saying is, when I see you on the street, I have a low opinion of you. I think less of you than I would if you stayed in shape. I have "big" friends. I know what "big" looks like. You just never knew when to put down the remote and chocolate bar.

The Northwest Smile

I've heard people gripe about the Northwest smile before. I'll admit, it's not exactly humanity at its most beautiful. Essentially, it's an effort to smile without expending too much muscle, but it ends up looking like someone who's very happy with their Botox:

So I can see why people think that's kind of a goofy, half-assed expression of feeling. But here's the thing– in many western cultures, people find it offensive and invasive to make eye contact. Essentially, as first-worlders, our goal in life is to not have anyone else exist unless they're specifically serving our needs at that particular moment. nonetheless, we're still curious what everyone else is doing. So if someone is looking at you on the street, if you catch them you're going to avert your eyes- you don't want to give them the impression that you're actually trying to make human contact. (The exception being when you're being checked out, in which case you are indeed serving their needs at that moment. You're welcome.)

Well, here's the thing– PNWers are very social people. So when we catch someone looking at us, we don't get upset that they're making eye contact. Yes, you're still bothering us, but we don't want to look like assholes. So we smile. Granted, it's the weakest, most half-assed effort of a smile that the human body can produce, but at least we're trying to be friendly. If nothing else, it beats the sarcastic Beehive Belt "there, is this the fucking smile you're looking for?" smile:

And he starts it off with a bang!

So, while perusing the web I find this page... it's a weblog, with all of two entries, one is the obligatory "hey, so I'm going to try this blogging thing" entry and then immediately afterward is some rant about his roommate, complete with an MS Paint depiction of her with a pitchfork and horns (actually, it really looks more like red kitty ears). So I think to myself, this guy is either cleverly ironic or a fucking tool. Since it was me, I just asked, and I said, "both!" So in order to make this nubile blog 33% less shitty, I'll put up a new post, this time with exciting revalations and introspections that show my subtly philiosophical side... of course, anyone who knows me realizes that I'm already the epitome of modern philosophic wit, so that wouldn't really excite them much, and anyone who doesn't know me couldn't give a shit. So, as a bonus, I will reveal a super duper secret about myself that they probably already know anyway or at least wouldn't be surprised by it, but I don't really broadcast it so it's still a good, prevalent point.

I should point out, then, the whole reason why I started this blog. "Don't you have MySpace?" Yes, I have MySpace, thank you. I have two MySpace pages, one for music and one for networking, but I am also aware that MySpace is primarily targeted towards self-absorbed, melodramatic 14 year-olds who haven't yet developed emotions like patience, relativism, or empathy, and with the help of the internet probably never will. I could just imagine using that as my rant-blog, only to have someone I know (Shitbag, for instance) actually read the thing. And since I'm not just a big barrel of negativity, I also have very cool things that happen in my life, like what I would like to share today, that I really don't want to be publicly known for what will reveal themselves as obvious reasons. So, that being said, I use blogger because NOBODY reads blogger unless they're specifically looking for something.

So, I'm single, by nearly every definition of the word. I'm not seeing anyone, there's no one in particular on the horizon... there are friends of mine that I'm sure I'd love to have something more serious happen with, but nothing I'd push or even aim for. Not because I'm not attracted to them, or I'm afraid of being rejected, but because, well, I'm essentially engaged. Yeah. So, there's that.

Given my history, I am sure that those who have known me for a long time would be dubious to my claim that my on-again, off-again relationship with Maria is finally reaching fruition. There are those who have gone so far as to suggest that she is fictional, or if not fictional, an old flame that I claim to still be in touch with, while in fact she's probably off living her own life, occasionally mentioning me in passing when someone finds an old picture of me in the bottom of her closet. It sounds suspicious from the outside. Sure, Rob, there's some girl in Russia who is just DYING to come over here and be with you, and not only that, she's not using you to get her green card and she won't just dump you once she's here to find a real man. To which I say... fuck you. :)

What the hell was I rambling about? Oh yeah. So, I'm still single. Technically. Maria and I aren't dating, we're not together, we're not even in the same country. We haven't seen each other in eleven years. We aren't sure if we'll even still have the flame when we meet again in February. She hasn't said yes to anything, and I've asked the questions, but in a very tentatively "what if" kind of scenario. Jesus, my blogs are long. Anyway, the catch is this– if everything goes as we hope, she could be here as soon as next September, with a rock on her finger and steadfast plans to be here with me for a long, long time. Tens of thousands of dollars would be invested into this, against significant obstacles, and we can't pull it off unless we really plan ahead. So, even though we aren't even back together yet, we've already set plans in action to get engaged, move in together in Portland, and start a new life. Plans are easier to cancel than to make.

But, until February, I'm still absolutely single. So the question is, am I on the dating scene? Is it cheating on Maria? I know what her answer would be, of course, and by that logic anything would be dishonest. I should point out, though, that I wouldn't do anything behind her back, that I've always told her I would tell her anything, and she has specifically said that she doesn't want to know (I told you she was smart). I told her that I would prefer to keep in the know about who she was seeing, though I encouraged her to see whoever she wants (no, not just to vindicate myself, because she's free to live her life, I don't own her), and she has honored that request by letting me know, for example, that she has recently been going out with her ex-fiance. So get it out of your mind that I'm another sleazebag guy trying to find a way to fuck whomever I want without my housewife finding out. It's the 21st century, the battle of the sexes has evolved.

But that leaves the question of the other girls I might go out on dates with. Do they need to know? Are they entitled to be warned if any possible relationship with them has a time limit? Should they be made aware that they have little to no chance of being a permanent soul mate? If so, when? A lot of people I've talked to have maintained that any relationship I get into, no matter how small, is ingenuine. I'm leading the girl on, and betraying Maria. The one piece of that argument that I agree with is this: If I were to tell the girl that there was someone else, and I had no intention of creating anything permanent with her, then she wouldn't invest herself in me. Therefore, if I purposefully avoid telling her about my situation to enable my own desires, any desires fulfilled by that means are unethical.

Be that as it may, a vast majority of us have been in relationships we knew weren't going to work. We're holding out for something better, we're hoping they'll change, we don't want to be alone, we love them so much as a friend that we're afraid of letting them down... the reasons are infinite, but when we make them, they all sound the same to the victim: "I don't want you." Yet we get into the relationship anyway. Why do we do it? All those reasons. Hell, I've started relationships by saying, "I don't see anything permanent between us. What say we have some fun and just see what happens?" Some would say that even that is dishonest, because I should know that women will hear whatever they want to hear and just expect that I'll come around later. I should know, they claim, that when I say that sort of thing, I'm just planting the seed so I can defend myself to my friends when I use the girl for my own purposes and dump her when I've gotten what I want. Aside from that line of logic being completely sexist, it implies that every man should go into a relationship with the presumption that the woman is irrational, self-centered, and hubby-hunting. In which case, why would a guy ever get into a relationship with anyone, ever? The propogation of the species requires me to believe either that a) women are inherently inferior and subservient to men, or b) women are capable of making their own decisions. I refuse to believe the former.

Anyway, I'm getting tired of writing. I think y'all have enough information at this point to make your own judgements. I'll add one last thing: yes, no matter what may happen over the next three months, I will go into any possible coed friendship, relationship, or one night stand knowing that I won't be getting into any serious romance with them. The two caveats are that I actually have a distinct deadline, and there's actually someone else out there. We all get into less-than-ideal relationships while we wait for that Perfect Someone to come along. The difference with me is, I know when she's getting here. I don't date hubby-hunters to begin with, so I don't see myself as taking advantage of some poor girl who thinks I'll lead her through her picket white gate. Nonetheless, is my only just course of action to stay in waiting for my princess to come?

P.S. If not, what are you doing Saturday?

Let me set the scene

All right, so I'm back to blogging. What should I write about... let's see, I'm trying to think of what needs getting off my chest, if there's anything that's been... oh, I know:

THE BATHROOM WARS

I take pride in my tolerance of others. The anti-pop grunge clique from whence I came has grown into a mass of uppity 20-somethings who have an unhealthy disdain for anyone who highlights their hair, listens to R&B, or fucks for friendships. I refuse to believe that someone is inherently a bad person just because they come from a different background. And for my dedication to this refusal of prejudice, God has punished me with this woman.

True, she pays her half of the rent on time, and in most cases that's a good thing. With this she-harpy, it ends up being a curse, because in her brilliant fucking mind, paying her half of the rent means that she has done everything that is required of her to be a good roommate. So if she empties the dishwasher by taking the bottom tray and dumping it blind into one of our cupboards, if she cleans up her dinner by throwing a plate still full of food from her seat to the kitchen (rebounding her marinara off the wall to make the trash can), if she reimburses me $10 for my sixty dollar mirror that was broken while she was hiding it in her room- well, that's really above and beyond the call of duty, isn't it? She does have a point, though– I never asked her to open up the windows while she was smoking pot in the living room 10 hours before our landlord was coming over to inspect the apartment, so really any problems with the apartment must be my fault.

Which brings me to our facilities. You see, when we first moved in, we discussed showering times. I started at 8:00 am, and she at 7:30. So, it made sense that she used the shower first. "When will you be showering?" I asked. "6:00," she replies. And, to be fair, my question wasn't specific enough. So when I asked her why she didn't take a shower until 6:45, she pointed out that 6:00 was the time for her evening shower. Her morning shower isn't until 6:30. You see, when you have that degree of a dirty, dirty cunt, you need to shower twice a day to prevent neighborhood dogs from confusing you for dying prey. (Slight side note on dogs: she borrows her boyfriend's dog to stay with us from time to time, because our neighborhood is 20% black, and she needs portection from our criminal neighbors. And, as she points out, "niggers hate dogs." Don't get me started on what she thinks of Arabs (pronounced: Eh-Rabb))

Here's my point: When she doesn't get out of the shower until 7:15, I don't have time to shower before work. Her, she just goes ahead and shows up late. If she really wants to take her time, she just takes her hair iron with her and does her hair at her desk. Not an option for me, because I actually have a job that involves doing things. So, I start getting up and taking a shower at 6:00 (a.m.), so I can be out of her way and on with my day.

Needless to say, she was furious. If I'm in the shower at 6:00 am, then I'm making all sorts of loud noises that keep her from getting her beauty rest: brushing my teeth, opening and closing doors... she went off for ten minutes about me not understanding "common courtesy" since I was eating breakfast out of a ceramic bowl (which causes the fork to clink). "Maybe I should just start getting up earlier," she says, "see how you like it. See what you think about someone bothering you when you're waking up in the morning."

Which is the number one thing that distinguishes her in the upper eschilon of douchebaggery (which is not to suggest that she's clean): she really, really believed that I had no idea what it must be like, having someone else in my apartment when I'm trying to live my life. Despite her paying half the rent, I insist on continuing to live there.

So, the bathroom wars begin. The next morning, when my alarm goes off at 5:30, she jumps out of bed and runs into the bathroom and turns on the shower. Fine, I figure, I can sleep in. So, I go back to sleep and get up half an hour later. She's still in the bathroom. So I make breakfast, read the paper. She finally opens the bathroom door and scoffs, "are you still here?" "Yep," I reply. She's very angry about this, of course. "I don't know why you get up earlier now," she yells from her room as she's getting ready. "You just get in the way." I go in and take a shower. Robert 1, Shitbag 0.

After a few days, she goes back to sleeping in. So I take my showers a little later, so that I don't wake her up. Needless to say, she's furious. You see, if I take my showers later, she has to wait for me to get out of the bathroom so she can get ready. She again complains that I'm so self-centered, I don't even realize that I'm being an inconvenience to others. How would I feel, she asks, if I had to wait for the bathroom? I couldn't imagine. But it's 6:15 now, and I'm enjoying a nice omelette and egg nog, while she's in a fit over the injustices of the world. Robert 2, Shitbag 0.

So, I start getting up earlier again. We discuss bathroom times, and I say, "when do you want me out of the bathroom?" "6:15," she decides. Perfect. So, I take a shower at 5:30 and I'm out by 6:00. Needless to say, she's furious. I'm still in the apartment, you see, when she gets up. Trolling around, eating breakfast, possibly ironing a shirt... which prevents her from being able to leave the shower running as she goes back and forth between her room and the bathroom, doing God Knows What. On top of which, when she goes in to microwave her coffee, I'm in the kitchen, making eggs (which doesn't get in her way but does involve me, well, existing nearby). If I'm going to get up before 7:20, she reasons, I should be out of the apartment completely by 6:15 so she can use the place herself.

I'm not really willing to negotiate that kind of an arrangement, so I tell her that I'll be out of the bathroom by 6:15 but this is just part of being a roommate. So, the next morning, I am up at 5:30, getting ready to go take a shower, when she walks out of her bedroom with cold coffee and wearing a towel. I start walking into the bathroom, and she says, "I'm going to take a shower, actually..." Now, this was truly a crossroads for me. If I were dealing with a rational person, or even an idiot, this is where I would point out that I needed to take a shower and get to work. I don't like starting the day with a fight, though, so I actually let her do it. Yep. Dumb.

She goes in and strikes up a bath. Okay, I figure, I'll just make breakfast and get ready. 40 mintues later—around 6:30—she gets out and empties the tub. The door remains locked as she gets out and dries off. Then, at 6:35, she takes her shower.

You see, she didn't have time to take her shower the previous night, so instead she got up early to take both of them in the morning. Had I known that, I would have gone in ahead of her and just let her be furious about it. But I didn't. She won that round. But the war continues on— so far, Robert 2, Shitbag 1. I'll keep you posted.

Well, I'm here again.

Back into the "blogosphere." Why? Simple– I realized that I had all sorts of things to rant about, and nobody to rant to. I don't want to be that guy where people say, "oh, there's that guy, he's going to complain about something." Most of my compatriots think my complaining is cute in a baby-use-potty kind of way; my problems aren't any worse than anyone elses, but I just seem so proud of myself when I solve them.

Unfortunately, I fancy myself a positive influence (and I'm positively fancy (but in a totally not gay way (end parentheses))(see?)). What the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah. In conclusion, the driving age should not be changed until minors have the power to vote. Wait, shit, that was the blog I wrote last year (http://chess-moves.blogspot.com/, check it out). No, this will not be some poetic, self-absorbed pseudo-philosophical "the world doesn't appreciate how deep I am" kind of blog. This is more of the "I like cheese" kind of blog, since I just got tired of telling the same old stories over and over, and my friends are tired of hearing them. So, I'll write them down. And you, dear friend and reader, can come and visit whenever you please.

Love, Robert