Why do we coddle and accommodate all these worthless sleeve-hearted papmakers with their acoustic guitars and quotidian strife? When there are artists like Stephin merritt out there who take the time to pretty up their histrionic self-pity and tuck it deep into a melodic wall of sound production like some exhausted baby into footsy pajamas? If you expect me to care that someone somewhere in the world is upset about their lot in life, then you’re going to have to do a little somethin for my ears, you dig?

Do you think Neil Patrick Harris is gay now because he spent so much time with Boner as a teenager?

I'm still not sure how I feel about actually using this journal bit. I may have to radically revise all of my hoitiest and toitiest convictions about myself if I start keeping an actual public diary on the actual internet for actual strangers.