Sunday, March 8, 2009

SCCL Blame-storm: Life is so real, you guys

Life is just so real sometimes. Like, sometimes you have something, and about 3.2 secs laters you just don't have it anymore, and there's nothing you can do about it. I think they call this 'real shit.' Sometimes you want to run away from the obvious, right? Maybe you're all happy about something, and it starts to suck, but you get used to it sucking, so instead of getting rid of it, you stick around and suffer with it, even though you 'wanna die sometimes'. They call it comfortable depression. I read about it on Twitterfall.

It's cool how you have to change the way you do things. Like, sometimes you try to get to the heart of closet case culture, in America, then you think you've gotten to the marrow and everything, and so you have to start basically making fun of Jake Gyllenhall in hopes of shaming him. Do I really think he's a clozzy? Maybe. But only because Reese Withsponianz is probs a lez. Don't sue me, y'all. It's just Sunday. Just trying to make it out alive. Just trying to decide if I should pay to see Watchmen or not. I hate spoilers is all. Gotta see it before the blogsphere blowhards it. Don't want to have to hurt sometone, or threaten violence.

Anyway, maybe there should be a big clozzy party? You think if I threw one, closetcases would really show up, or would it just be queenie twinks, who are in high school? Whatever, all I know is that I've seen the movie Step Up 2 tha Streets Y'all like 4 times already, and I don't even feel bad about it. Can I tell you a secret? I'm basically in love with the cast. Does that mean my life is probably empty? 

I blame the recession. I blame Barrack Obama. I blame my parents. I blame the Pope. I blame Polytheism. I blame HRO. I blame Facebook. I blame the Cobrasnake and Gawker dot com. I blame internet porn. I blame the Jonas Brothers (miss you guys). I blame the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album. I blame Liza Minelli.  I blame kids who used to wear NIN t-shirts. I blame Verizone Wireless. I blame Apple store employees. I blame hicks from the South. 

I blame closetcases. 

I blame me.

Call me in three years, bro.

party pix via cobrasnake

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