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“Welcome to the Freedom2surf signup page!
Sorry – Our free webservers are currently full”

oh well. I’m looking for other alternatives.

This is the first time I’ve opened up blogger in IE for pc. Very weird. How do they do this? I’m so confused… It’s not a frame, and it very much appears to be a part of my browser. How do they do it!?

um, yeah, what was I going to talk about? Hmmm. working on the weekends sucks, especially when you find out about this expectation on sunday afternoon. I’ve been depressed lately. (I don’t think this is actually related to working on sunday, but anything is possible.) I blame lack of sleep, and far too much to do after work… I have less and less “unscripted” time. Time to just do whatever…

My poetry journal has been the most neglected it has been in at least four years. I write in it sometimes once a week now, and I was doing so well there for awhile. Aproaching my once or twice a day in the summertime. I guess when it’s nice outside, I want to go sit more and write. I also blame the fact that I haven’t really read anything inspiring lately. I was very excited to get the new book of poetry by Jeff Noon, but it turned out to be pretty uninteresting. I should read more of it, but when do I have time?

My most recent musical discovery is this punk/pop band called The Strokes. I think they’re from the UK. (I really have no idea.) The first song on the album, and the title track, is “Is This It”, which is probably a question, despite the lack of punctuation. The phrase keeps rolling around in my head, both in lyric, and in word form (does anyone else end up thinking in typing strokes?) … yeah, you can’t respond yet, but you will be able to. soon… I’m desperate for that instant feedback… I’ve become addicted to reading the comments on Yami’s site, and I want the same thing for myself. Of course, I don’t have hordes of foreign exchange students who have everything in common with me, but maybe I’ll find an audience in the balding-mid-twenties-underpaid-techie crowd.

a poem off the top of my head:

sweet silvery jukebox-smile
teeth matte like the grit on a scratch-to-win
pig-tails and short skirt–
high-school-girl high

you cavort my eye
cajole my attention span into flickering your fickle direction
I’m a weak knee’d gummy worm
squishy in your palm

precicely pinned in your geometry textbook
hearts and stars around our names
I’m your disected frog, I’m your stairway physics experiment
I’m empty and old, used and discarded

whatever happened to that jittery feeling anyway? I used to get all nervous talking to girls on the phone, now I just want to hang up and talk to someone in real life, or go check my email… speaking of…

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