Raise Thy Voice.

This one's going out to my dear friend and roommate, the one with documented aviation proclivities and unproven (though unasserted) communist sympathies. The one with the good hairstyle that cursed his peers by making them wish they were more outdoorsy and their head shapes more inclined to scruff and a shaved head. The proto-typical sunshining woodsman of the dark. I found out he on fact reads my blog and receives all notifications as posts by email. What a peach, team, what a pair. Indeed, the title of "pear" is the highest honor that I, the "peach" can bestow upon his readership. Let the woodsman speak: does he accept my appointment, yea or nay?

In other news, I have not failed to convince myself not to marathon all three Lord of the Rings movies' extended editions all day long tomorrow, as background work while we go about the rest of the day. The odds are looking good, but a lot depends on whether I feel like it'd be fun. We'll see about that.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen.

Okey dokey. Nothing to say. Tried to get everyone's favorite pop-country crossover sensation to tweet me happy birthday, but my advances have so far been ignored. That's okay, I'm playing the long con here. Her resolve will fall. Why does she have resolve about this? Rude.

School. School. School, school, school. Yee-haw, diddly-fraw, ding-dong ding-dong bang.

Thank you for your time.

The Devil You Don't.

Homeladies and homegentlemen, homeboys and homegirls. Tomorrow dawns a new age. A new lease on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, which for me is broken down again into categories of school, work, church, and leisure. I have dreams to achieve in six months, five years, and six years from now. Best dreams ever, this guy's got himself.

My chosen schooling is really doing a number on my Oxford comma-favoring instincts. I used to try to show that I could leave it out without losing my roots, and my leisure or otherwise unsupervised writing would be able to stick with classical tradition. The problem I'm seeing here now is that when I go to use an Oxford comma by default, I can't help but see the interruption it affords the flow of my communication. I'm very disappointed in myself, falling to the dark side of AP style.

Long Time, No Birthday.

I don't know about you (I don't know about you!), but I'm feeling twenty-six. I feel like I've finally hit the age where there are no more excuses, and I have to buck up and start playing video games without walkthroughs, or tweet without ironic hashtags. Not all it's cracked up to be, I'll tell you.

Here's wishing me years of life numbering infinity times ten: orders of magnitude beyond the impossible. What do you think about that, Buzz Lightyear?