Don't look at me like that.

I'm on to you.

You think you can fool me,

but I know you.

You're a user.
I think my sole job at Dell

is to turn off the drippy faucet

in the 3rd-floor ladies'.

Had to go in today.

Ayup.
Holy meme.

(There's backstory to that strip.)

Am I disloyal for liking

Sluggy-by-Foglio

better?
Everybody else

misspells it.

Why shouldn't I?

It's the little things,

like your last name,

that you lose first...
This is so weird.

My eyelids are swollen.

I look sleepy.

No, I don't know why

I'm telling you.
No jury

would convict me.
A private moment, glimpsed:

Our grouchy DBA,

eating lunch with his daughter,

grinning like an idiot,

completely disarmed.
...Tell me

to go to work.
And Neil published

another of my letters:

second one down

on Sunday.
No freakin' way.

Sluggy Freelance's

"Filler Week Guest Artist"

is Phil Foglio!
*sniff*

Go see Finding Nemo.

Goodness, it was sweet.
Oh, god.

This is what they mean.

This is writers block.

I hate it.
It's the weekend.

I'm craving coffee.

I don't have a problem.

I don't have a problem.
Y'know what I like about

Imaginary Year?

Reading about other people

being people

makes me feel

more like a people.
Are y'all finding me okay?
New version of Blogger =

Lo-fi version for flunkies =

PDA-compatible blogging =

Happy Sherbie
Thank you.

My moment of weakness

has passed.

My blog still won't publish,

mind you.
Okay, I'm gonna

be a user for just one second:

Quit changin' shit

that used ta work

and makin' it not work.
But I don'

wannaaaaaah.
For a complete change of pace,

I am writing a ballad.

It's delightfully awful.
Overheard:

"What happened to your

horns last night?"

Music?

No, football.
They're calling me,

calling me.
The creepy thing is

co-workers are logged in, too.

I'm not tired;

I'm bored.
Heh.
Spam tells us:

Women should be smaller.

Men should be larger.
Realization of a life-long dream:

My first ride in a Jeep Wrangler.

Doors off, and everything.

Oh... yeaaahhh...

('Course, I'll never get a brush

through my hair again.)
Powazek gives us

a story worth reading.

Masterful.
Version control

is for pansies.

[bangs head on keyboard]
May I just say?

37signals

makes me hot.
Have I got this right?

If we all run to the east,

we can slow the earth's rotation,

and get more hours in the day.

Who's with me?
Fat

jokes

aren't

funny.
It takes

a special kind of lunatic

to keep a cuckoo clock,

and a special kind of sadist

to keep one in an apartment.
Dude.

Smart code.
Picked a hell of a day

to quit sniffing glue.
Argh!

"Root-cause"

is not a verb.

Still,

I'm glad we did.
Oh, good.

Thanks for taking care

of that for me.

Those trees were really

mucking up the view

on my commute.
Oh, dear god,

it's a sign.
Strangely enough,

the result is kind of apt.

Auto-generated blog poem

posted in comments...
The sky dark like night.

Wipers on high not quite adequate.

Lightening strikes, just over there.

Accoustic Susanne Vega.

Wet through, on my way to work.
I'm proud of

this essay.
Holy fuck!

All I wanted was a little sun.

I step out for less than a

cigarette break,

and I get bitten by an ant!

Ow. *sniff*
motivate me
Okay, you know what?

Maybe

he's not so dumb

after all.
Never engage in a

grossest-food-I-ever-ate discussion

with a woman from China

and a man who lived in Malaysia,

and then try to find lunch

in the cafeteria. *ugh*
This

was

awesome.