5 : 30 A.M.
Yessir

Playing video games, same as I ever was. Boop boop tweep tweep, doot dee doo doo doo. It's not easy, being this entertained.

In fact, it makes me want to jump up and down and say something about B-splines. I don't have anything to say about them, though. so I can't. B-splines. Not conducive to frothing about. I did recently get to try out "Illustrator", which is Adobe's drawing program. That made me think about splines, and in particular how annoying they are to use in Photoshop by comparison. Photoshop being the world's most famous graphic retouching program. Graphic? Photograph? Graphic of photographic stuff. Well anyway the first thing everyone does when they get photoshop is put their friends' heads on monkey bodies, or give Janet Jackson fifteen nipples. The first thing I did with Illustrator was draw Mr. Doinksquirt in calligraphic script. (Mr. Doinksquirt is copyright 1987 Jill "Beanie" Denyes)

Now what? It's getting late! Blandness #1! I've got a date with desssstiny. No wait - I've got a date with ... no, that's retarded! I don't date. Dating sucks. I've, uh, heard. I mean, I have seen it on TV and it looks like a total waste of time. And I'm not just saying that to be a disaffected counter-culture reject antisocialite mister spock hip-hopster ironic dingbat loser. What I've got with destiny, well, it's more like a tacit agreement that we're going to get together sometime in the future for activities of consequence, with no real expectation of profundity or long-term occupation.

Yeahh. I'd keep saying it's late. I should just make an automatic text generator that talks about how late it is. I could put that guy on irc and spread net presence without having to deal. Because late night irc is like late night television: interesting only to the very slow and filled with halfass attempts at pornography. Or no, I don't even know if that's what late night television is like anymore. I find myself trying to remember if Kool-Aid man carried a small version of himself around with which to dispense kool-aid, or if he just poured aid directly out of his forehead spout. I guess the full-sized spout on his head would release a little more kool-aid at once than is really practical for any kid, no matter how enthusiastic. So yeah, he must carry around a little pitcher which he just dips in his head every time it gets empty. Food mascots which are also the food they sell have historically set off little inconsistency alarms in my young head. Why is twinkie the kid selling twinkies? Isn't he worried that he's next? Or has he sold out his kind in exchange for immunity from mouths? Ditto for guys like kool-aid man, mister peanut, the pillsbury dough golem, uh, mister coffee, rug doctor... Hamburger helper doesn't really fall under that generalization, but there's something really unpleasant about him, too. He made me worry that someday I'd open my grasp and have a little red nose on my palm. YEAGH like a little albino medusa head