I finally hit Julia too hard, and now she can't post her own blog

Do you find yourself waxing nostalgic about the halcyon days of the 1990's? I do, sometimes. I miss the audio-train-wreck noise assault of bands like Drive Like Jehu and The Jesus Lizard. Hell, once in a while, I pine for the hate-fueled vomit rock of Unsane or Guzzard if I'm drunk, squinting, and have just exited a conversation with a college radio DJ sporting painstakingly, carefully disheveled hair concerning the virtues of The Wonder Stuff or some fey-handed, mopey, wannabe British group that occupies valuable and undeserved space on the Cool List.

Oh, fuck this stupid beat-around-the-bush, heavy handed, I-have-a-better-record-collection-than-you-do (I do) bullshit. I'm a man, bitches, and I've got the keys to Julia's blog. I make the same visceral groan that an 18 wheeler semi whose ignition switch has just been turned by a yeti in a gently worn, sleeveless, black Morbid Angel T-shirt (vintage, or freshly eBayed? Doesn't matter) does when I empty the contents of my (average sized, at least!) spent wiener into my detached, ungrateful stepfather's bathroom trash can after having discovered a treasure trove of aged-to-perfection 1970's porno mags on one of my many trips home to beg him for $30.

Sigh. I mention all of the above only to reestablish the shaky grasp I've barely been able to maintain on the paper-thin veil covering my ever-deteriorating masculinity. And now, in order to vainly attempt to make up for my chronic impotence I have to make this post on my girlfriend's blog. I'm slipping slowly into homosexuality as I type this, with the gentle wind of the cast of CMT's TRICK MY TRUCK caressing my ear in the background. Please God, let my ascent to gaywadedness take me soon.

So here's what Julia has been up to since last she updated...

-- Julia and I haven't been up to much in the past few days outside of begging for pennies in front of Lidz near the food court in the mall. Christmas is coming soon, and in order to bless my lady not only with the miracle of my love, but that black-on-black Georgetown basketball Starter® jacket she coos gently into my ear about AD FUCKING INFINITUM, a brotha's gotta make some scratch. Unfortunately, the close proximity to Charlie's Steakery probably doesn't help, as I can't imagine a truly savvy consumer NOT spending every last penny in their pocket on one of their delectable, possibly meth-laced sandwiches.

-- Julia's cats are still obnoxious, and are likely plotting to kill me. I'm still not overtly obnoxious, and am likely plotting to spend over an hour devouring more than $15 worth of Taco Bell in one sitting and returning to her apartment to take a giant reconstituted-beanstuff dump in their litter box.

-- Although Julia recently won a Webbie® award for her magnum opus on the Montgomery Gentry fan fiction site, she's not as proud of the award she won for her modeling work for Inside Columbia's photo spread on hermaphrodite cat owners. I don't remember all the details, but I do remember that although she mentioned that the spread wouldn't run in the next issue right away, she was given $16, rubbed her crotch against a hobo's bald head, and will be debuting the piece on a website called... let me check here... uh, bumcum.com.

-- I'll leave the rest of the updating to her. Adieu, sweet faggots.