October 21, 2002
Today is the day to find yourself a city, find yourself a city to live in.
Send me your questions. You technically have until Thursday but I am toying with the idea of calling out people by name who read this site. You don't want that to happen to you, do you? Thus, if you're reading this, you had best respond.
Spoiler: Mom and Dad, skip ahead to the paragraph after the following.
I finally am in my new apartment, and I put together all my furniture, save my bed. That includes a draft table, a chest of drawers and seven sets of cabinets. I did so much screwing, I felt like bargain-basement whore.
Hi-o!
(Safe to resume.)
Anyway, with all this new furniture, and the added curiousity of rent, the availability of money is not what it used to be. Thus, I'd like to make something clear to interested parties:
I am ready, willing, and eager to sell out.
I don't care what I sell out to, as long as it's not harmful (by "harmful," by the way, I mean the KKK and neo-Nazis. Not alcohol or cigarettes. You know what selling out to the alcohol or tobacco companies means: $crilla, and lots of it!)
I have no particular values or rationales that I need to keep unique and to myself. I have no small fanbase that I fear alienating. You pay me money, I'll do it. I'll sing, I'll dance, I'll give totally uninformed political commentary, whatever it is.
Any fresh ideas, unique perspectives or questionable talents I may have, I am totally willing to sacrifice to the sweet god of finance. Quiznos commercials? I'll do it. My own column in Parade magazine? You go it. My own line of hair dye? Sure! (as long as I get a lifetime supply.)
So please, give me this chance, the chance to sell out. I'm ready and willing. I'll do just about anything.
Oh, except Clamato. Yecch.