but this is my 301st post. Blogging is something I thought I'd never do, much less like, until I started doing it, like snatch waxing and anal sex, and here I am doing it every morning. Blogging, that is. . . . it's funny because it hasn't replaced the diary, either, but it's been such a nice new release to write a bunch of things that are personal in the sense that they come out of my brain but not personal in the sense that I'm going to blush when people read them. So thank you, people who read and don't make me blush. Thank you, Mr. Internet. I shall propitiate you by paying my Rogers bill when I get paid on Friday.
In a week I'll be waking up stupid with sex, insha'Allah. It's been so long I think I've forgotten how to do it, unless all my memories are wildly off the mark and Figaro in fact has batteries. But I had just been going on about writing a bunch of things that weren't personal. Sorry.
Okay. Do you think the use of organs on baseball diamonds has successfully desanctified the instrument? I went to an organ recital in the local Anglican cathedral a couple of days ago and even as the sun streamed through the stained glass and the religious iconography around me made me deeply take to heart and meditate over the notion of a tripartite God, the music kept making me want to stand up and yell "Charge!" You know, if I ever get married I wouldn't mind a religious ceremony, if that's the way my possible bitch wants it. I was raised in the Catholic Church, I believe that Jesus's words are the basis of the good and noble life, and I'm suitably intimidated by priests. But I don't think I'd be able to hack any organ music. In a situation that solemn anything would hit my ears like The Baby Elephant Walk.