Hey You Fat Bludgers!
I just pre-ordered the new Harry Potter on Amazon--they're having a sale where you get it for $17 instead of $30 if you order it in advance. I am so happy. It's going to be like Christmas, come late June, when that package arrives. Apparently the new book is about 60,000 words longer than the last book. In single-spaced typed pages, that's 110 pages longer. The entire book is 510 single-spaced typed pages. That's sizable.
She's getting wordier and wordier. That's OK with me. I just wish she would cut down on the Privet Drive shit at the beginning. Drag, man.
I have a really bad, sad feeling that by the end of the series, Dumbledore will have died or gone off to the secret Wizard Dying Ground.
OK, enough of this Harry Potter shit. I sound like some lame, boring teenage blogger.
Some kind of miracle occurred last night: Not only did I win at Trivial Pursuit, playing against Ken, the world's best T.P. player, but I also won against everybody else--like, five people. This is very strange. There was some kind of magical math at work in the stars last night.
Wait, I still sound like a lame boring teenage blogger.
Fuck. OK, um. Hmm.
Well, Red Clay asked me why I blog. And then last night someone mentioned the whole privacy-exposure-voyeurism issue, the central weirdness of a blog like mine.
You know, I never intended to make this blog so personal. Some people tell me they feel voyeuristic reading it. But, you know, it's only voyeurism if you're spying. And you're not. As personal as this blog may be, it's actually pretty carefully constructed to protect the sacred, the secret, and the private stuff in my life. Not to be a bitch, but I don't share the really good shit, the real dirt.
Some people imagine I must feel uncomfortable to be so exposed in my blog. The weird thing is, I would actually feel uncomfortable being less exposed. It wouldn't be me. And, like I said, I just don't share the really important stuff. I may sometimes refer to it in funny codes that the right people will hopefully understand, or maybe nobody but the faces in the ceiling will get it. That's OK too.
OK, so enuf of this shit. I stayed up till practically sunrise last night and I have absolutely nothing interesting, charming, or memorable to say. Um, war is bad. Love is good. Eat more bacon. Read "Ask the Dust," even if you've already read it. Don't fear the reaper. That hotel detective was outta sight!