Yeah, I know, I probably typoed, or left words out of that last post, much like I'll probably do in this one. Don't tell me. The irony, you can imagine, would not be lost on me. But I've got to got to got to get back to Cloud Atlas pronto. I'ven't got time for silly things like "proofreading my web site missives that nobody reads anyways because they're dull and god damned pretentious anyways with the footnoting and the froofy froo froo transparent sidebar and I totally need a stiff drink". Froofy froo froo. Foo.
See I've already called it elsewhere that The Dresden Dolls show over the weekend was the best concert of the year (though a friend of mine did beat me by calling it the best show of the year before we even got to the show which just makes me feel like a loser for not having the fore-sight to call it the best show of the year before we even knew who The Dresden Dolls were) and now I'm going to call something, here: much like The Dresden Dolls disc was the CD I made every man, woman, and child within a 400 square mile radius listen to and love the way I did, I'm probably going to be making every friend I have who knows how to read, read Cloud Atlas. And I'm not even half-way through it. Lit-bloggers who don't suck and who don't need to encourage themselves to read books for fun are probably all like "Yawn, Thumb Drives and Oven Clocks is so yesterday" as they pick up packages from the mail that contain advanced copies of novels written by authors who haven't even been born yet but I don't care. I'm a yesterday kind of guy. And I like it. Froofity froof kafroof!
Editor's note: no lit-bloggers who don't suck were harmed in the composition of this post.
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