The Three Moods of Melquiades ReadBecca

I haven't posted anything, but that doesn't mean I haven't had thoughts. I have. They pretty much all fall into three, self-explanatory categories:

1. Fuck!
2. Whatever.
3. Fuckin' whatever, man.

Two other things of note. The only thing I hate worse than jazz is folk music, and PBS better come up with programs about something or someone other than the Mamas and the Papas and John Denver or I'm writing public television out of my will. I don't want to watch any more Bob Dylan shows either. That guy comes off as so big a jackass that it makes me want to hit him over the head with his guitar, accoustic or electric, whichever's handier.

Go read WritingGal for a substitute one-year anniversary post. I can't be bothered.

ReadBecca Is Broke, Willie Nelson-Style.

You need some copy editing or marriage ceremonying, you drop me a line. Reasonable rates and excellent customer service, with a certain "je ne sais quoi." Tell your friends. I am not kidding.

I don't know how it's possible, but I have less money now than I did when I didn't have any sort of job at all. Taking the government cheese kept me in the black, but getting a job put me in the red. What. The. Fuck?

Oprah and her Debt Diet. I never should have watched that show. I would still be blissfully unaware of the straits direr than the Straits of Magellan I'm in if I had just left things alone. Never take action! Deny! Deny! Deny! How could I have forgotten that?

Shit. I just remembered I owe the library money too.