The only thing worse than a cheeseburger made by a dirty Russian is a burrito made by a white person. By Teddy Blank.
Often, I wander the streets at night in my hometown, alone, without direction or purpose; I just meander. Sometimes I get to thinking, which can be dangerous. I think about lots of things, mostly things that are relatively harmless but interest me nonetheless. Like that time in third grade when I broke my wrist because a girl came to tag me on the playground and I backed up and fell off the swingset. I think about that sometimes, because I swear to god, if I ever figure out who that girl was, I will chop her body into little pieces and install them in my hard drive or something like that.
Also, I think about digital cameras and the effect they have had on our society as a morally unclean cesspool of pornography, MySpace, Facebook, Webshots, and all other things of that nature. The internet is fucked up. Sometimes I ponder the existence of a mechanical pencil on the desk here, but not really. It kind of sucks.