The Backbone

I've been "freelance writing" lately, which pretty means writing bullshit articles for SEO.

Dream a dream.

While it's pretty mindless—all I do is write vaguely purchase-positive copy with X number of mentions for each keyword—I do relish having the authority to make ridiculous proclamations like this :

Perhaps only those familiar with home design truly appreciate the sink basin’s role in completing a bathroom. Basins create harmony. They tie the room together, synthesizing all the disparate elements of a bathroom—toilet, tub, tile—into a unified whole. The basin is the backbone of your bathroom.

It is? Sure! Why? Because I said so. Glorious.

Call me drunk with power, but for the moment anyway I'm plenty happy getting paid to write with conviction about stuff I care nothing about. At least it's something I can talk about at the dinner table.

Love is passe, beauty is overdone, and truth is for hacks. I write my poems to the gods of wall-mounted vanity units, semi-recessed sinks, and "adult" dating sites and I defy you to read them with dry eyes.

Maybe it's all the Joy Division

You know you need to get out more when your roommate sends you this:

http://montreal.en.craigslist.ca/etc/993049444.html

Sometimes when I'm bored I illustrate bad puns with Google Image Search and MS Paint

Joy Division - Love Will Tear Us Apart

Sorry.

I'm the one who looks like Robert Smith

Bet you didn't know I could choreograph. Oh yeah, I can't. But I did anyway. Can't wait to fluff this up and use it to pad my CV.

The stiff and arrhythmic lurchings of zombiedance are pretty much the stuff of my everyday existence, so yeah, I guess you could say I'm a natural.

And snap that hair back.

It's scarier without the poorly synched and inappropriate audio, I swear.

Anyway, if you're into this kind of shit, you might also enjoy this, whose quality should make it clear that I had nothing to do with it.

Just add water

Did I ever tell you about the time a mouse died in my couch and everyone who sat on it suspected the person next to them of farting because it stank so bad...

until we figured out to look under the cushion?

I know, gross, right?

Proof that half my rent goes to paying off the city building inspector

Hey Mickey!

Yesterday I bought four small mouse alarms that you plug into electrical sockets anywhere you want to hear a loud fridge-like appliance buzz.

I do like what it does for my bedroom ambiance.

While I was hoping that these would work as sonic weapons and and make hot liquid mouse-brain ooze from little mouse-skulls (yes, I would be willing to clean this up), a sonic mouse repellent system functions more like a game of chicken: you're supposed to wait for the noise to drive the mice crazy before you yourself go nuts from the incessant creepy tickle-at-the-back-of-your-nose vibration and the half-headaches it seems to maintain. But I've spent months being lulled to sleep each night by the sound of mice eating my food and shitting up my kitchen. I'm well prepared to weather a small annoyance like nagging chronic pain.

I spent all last night fantasizing about a mass mouse exodus, where I turn the lights off and all the mice just start streaming out of my apartment, out through the gigantic gaps in my doors and windows from whence they came, out into the winter air where they will all huddle together for warmth until they become sleepy, and then, little mouse-lids drooping, they submit sweetly to a warm and furry death.

SO CUTE.