Bwah!

There you go.

I have an addiction here at work, and that addiction is the google image search. I'll be sitting here signing into gmail for the 57th time in a row, and suddenly I'll be like

Whoa! I wonder if I could find a picture with the search phrase "exploding face"!

So: it's off to google images, which alternately provides the prosaic and the shocking. The weirdest thing is when you type in a generic word like "blue" and get a nude or near-nude woman. With blue, for example, you get a picture of scantily-clad whatserface . . . paris hilton. "Typist" . . . well, you don't want to know.

Oh god it's the weekend oh god oh god.

I didn't want to tell you this, but . . .

I have cancer.

Wait! That's not what I wanted to tell you! That's not even true!

I have Monday off.

Yep.

So everyone who doesn't get whatever the hell that day is off (MLK?) can look forward to a very smarmy and self-satisfied post, written from the plush confines of the Flophouse's living room bed, where I may or may not be warmly nestled in a woman's arms, where I may or may not warmly nestle a big mug of coffee, where I may or may not be playing video games.

What happened to my long, long, ridiculous bullshit blog entries? Surely you ask yourself this question nightly. You lie in your little beddy bed, in your bedroom (how precious a commodity, and you don't even realize it!), covers drawn to your chin, pile of crusty pornography magazines only slightly uncomfortable beneath the fluff of your pillow, and you wonder: what happened to Tim? The answer is that Tim does not have a home. Wait, no: that is not the answer. The answer is surely: the answer: the answer is: fuck.

Some of us would like to come see you maybe Saturday, John. Some of us would like to drive up to Ames and accelerate all the while, so that while we rammed through pedestrians outside the school we moved faster, and while we charged up Stange we moved ever faster, until finally the car hurdled the curb and shot through the wall and crashed through some innocent renter's apartment, through your kitchen wall, over your sink and onto the linoleum and then onto the carpet and we would leap out, all of us, and scream and tackle you. And then . . . I don't know. Eat a pita.