I have too many t-shirts

Seriously, I just did my laundry, and when I merged the pile of clean shirts on top of the existing pile of t-shirts, they simply collapsed like a tower of Jenga.  Admittedly, I’m sitting down and forcing myself to write some stuff, but I do have a lot on my mind these days that I don’t think it’s purely for naught.

So there’s a situation that involves some nighttime vandals, and I have to wonder if there is anything that can be done about it?  It’s not my property per-se, but it’s still annoying to think of some idiots smashing mailboxes, and getting away with it, simply because it’s done likely in the nighttime hours that nobody notices.  Calling the cops can only accomplish very little, other than meek promises to patrol more often, and the postal service has zero sympathy for the situation at hand, and completely disallows movement of any mailbox regardless of the circumstances.  Other than radical vigilantism, or expensive surveillance equipment, there’s nothing saying it won’t happen again when the mailbox is predictably replaced.  This kind of helplessness and inability to solve in a conventional manner is distressing.

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Photos: Well, a lot of them

Most recently, it’s a bunch of drunken photos taken from Brad and Stuart’s birthday party, where there was lots of Rockband, Street Fighter, and watching Korean guys propagate stereotypes by doing nothing but playing Tekken and World of Warcraft.

But I’ve been lagging behind, so there are several other photo albums of pictures that most people not me probably wouldn’t care about, meaning baseball, that I’ve caught up with.  But I’ll let those who are possibly interested to check for themselves.

Otherwise, things have been a little below-average, overall.  Repeated visits to the hospital, seeking work, sometimes going to Dykeland, watching the Braves suck, and playing Left 4 Dead.  Haven’t been thinking a whole lot of what to write these days, and I’d like to rectify that.

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An amazing thing happened to me today

I went to the DMV, and I was in and out of there in literally less than five minutes. Absolutely, unfathomably, inconceivable.

Seriously, I walked inside, and there was no line, so I was immediately ushered to the information booth where I was given a number for my circumstances (renewing tag), along with the invoice. I sat down and pulled out my checkbook, and began writing “City of Atlanta Tax Commis-” and then my number is called. Dumbfounded, I sit down in front of the lady behind the glass, as she looks at me impatiently as I fill out the rest of my check. I tear the check off, give it to her, and she gives me my new 2010 blue tag sticker, and I’m literally like “that’s it?” and, unamused, she looks back at me, and responds “that’s it.” And then I’m back out the door.

It took me four times longer to drive to and from the place than it did to get my tags renewed.

Otherwise, life is, still pretty weary these days. I haven’t found faith yet, but I have been strangely less inclined to blurt out “GOD DAMN IT” and other supposed blasphemous terms. Yet the most extreme of my actions was that I was in my car listening to an old CD, and when Marilyn Manson’s The Fight Song came on, and the lyrics where it goes “I’m not a slave, to a god, that doesn’t exist,” I instinctively skipped the rest of the track. For some reason, it just doesn’t feel appropriate to be listening to that, lately.