rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

make note: I’m listening to “I can’t dance.” yeah, Genesis sucked after Peter Gabriel left, and they sucked pretty bad while he was with them, too, but that song is catchy. catchy, meaning, if you’re scanning the radio and the Lite FM station is playing it, you’ll figure, what the hell, it beats whatever bullshit sports talk or alternative rock is blathering on about.

alright. I got a hold of this whole “Weekend Ticket” thing.
it’s the weekly entertainment section of the paper. I got to think of a story, assign it, and imagine up a page-eating, attention-grabbing front for it.
this was the first week I had to do it on my own. after I shit the bed, the reporter came up with something about Super Bowl parties. but I’ve got a pretty decent idea for a graphic. so we’ll see how it works out. hopefully well.
the, uh, roomie has been a little grating over the past week. he got the power turned off today because he didn’t pay the bill – which I don’t understand, as I give him money for it every month – and he drinks all my beer. I’m being petty, I know, but come on; there’s such a thing as roommate etiquette. and I think, dare I say, that Greg may be a little Schreineresque.

Mar’s going clubbing in Budapest. go Mar. go.

I cleaned my bedroom for the first time in months today. it was never dirty, but always messy. still is. I don’t understand it; when I came out here, I purged the incredible amount of clothes that I never wear. I was down to mean week, week and a half worth of shit. and I’m back up to two, three weeks again. I just amass clothing that I never wear. I’m always in the same t-shirt, tennis shoes, ripped jeans. I dress like a fucking slob, man. and to be honest, fixing that has never been much of a priority. maybe it should.
I’m about a decade behind the grunge scene. holy shit, maybe I’m bringing it back.