Blogspot, tentacles flapping in the wind.

My NYU email quota of 100MB was almost up this morning, so I went through my email mass-deleting items when I came upon this gem, which was written by Justin in July 2005 in order to secure a 4 bedroom triplex in Brooklyn. Mike ran it through gizoogle.com. We got the place, by the way.

Dear Debora n Jason,

First of all, I want ta say how funky ass it was messin' bizzoth of you the otha day n how beautiful yo hizouse is. My roommates n myself (izzles those who kizzle `bout tha apartment only through Mike n my descrizzle of it) is completely in love wit tha apartment n are very anxious ta find out if we git it or not sho nuff. It is far n away the funky assst place weve looked at, n weve dizzle quite a bit of look'n.

That being said, we completely understand any reservizzles you may have `bout us droppin hits. If I had just put a year of renovizzles into a house, I would be hesitant me ta rent it ta fizzy college students, two of whizzom you wont git ta meet until we mizzy in. I thought i told ya, nigga I'm a soldier. And while I assure you that were all good kizzids, we absolutely understand tha nature of tha situation bitch ass nigga.

Our hearts is set on yo apartment, but we wizzay of course understand should you choose ta select different tenants. Were rhymin' tizzle you not spare our messin' in that case, n let us know as soon as possible, as our current leaze runs out on August 1st n we may have some last minute scrambl'n ta do ta find a new place.

i in no way wizzy ta indicate any lessened enthusiasm fo` yo apartment, as all of us is extremely stoked by tha prospect of liv'n there, nor do we want you ta in any way rush tha process upside yo head. we understand thiznat adecision of this magnitude takes some tizzle. were jizzay ask'n ta be informed of yo decision as soon as you makes it, n although sippin' vizzle mizzy tizzle it wiznill be in our favor, we would S-T-to-tha- izzill like any bad news as soon as possible.

we also strongly recommend tizzle if you hizzle any reservizzles `bout the two roommates whom you have not yet mizzy nizzick n byron, that you call them n rap ta them n git a fizzle fo` what theyre like fo' real. though i imagine you have they contact info on tha application, they phone numba are, respectivizzles 917.287.xxxx n 617.947.xxxx. pleaze do not hesitate ta contact any of us wittany questions. It was a pleasure mobbin' you, n heres hop'n we can be yo tenants.

On behalf of all four of us,
Justin Sowa

Blogspot, word vomit.

Last night was the second time I snuck beer into a showing of The Devil Wears Prada. Arriving several minutes into the previews, my friends and I were forced to sit so close to the front row that whenever Anne Hathaway got reamed onscreen for wearing synthetic fiber I swore I could feel the moisture glistening in her colossal, anime-like eyes. The movie remained excellent the second time around--the thrill of watching skinny bitches with uni-bangs trotting around in panic while yourself munching on a plastic container of super-nachos is…irreplicable.

*I deleted like two pages of stuff because I read it and was ashamed of phrases like "sartorial semiotics." Be glad.

Blogspot, melty, melty cheese.

I once saw a documentary on the Discovery Channel about areas near volcanos in Africa where gases dissolved in the magma chamber seep out into the atmosphere. On stagnant days, the carbon dioxide displaces all the oxygen at ground level and suffocates animals on the ground and the occasional four year old.

The Lexington and 51st street subway station works the same way with heat. One of the entrances features a shallow set of steps down to the platform and today, I could feel the hot air lapping at my legs. This is a radical departure from a week ago, when the cool Atlantic water washed over my ankles. In my mind I am in Rehoboth Beach again, staring at a ruined jellyfish and contemplating throwing it at Joe--the quaintest possible act of bioterror.

Back in Realityland, the heat index peaked at 108 today. I don't understand. Past 90 degrees, I basically bake, marinated in twin juices of sweat and Haterade. And that's when the air isn't even so humid as to resemble atomized jacuzzi water. As I stepped on the subway and started drying off, salt crystals started forming on the edge of my mouth, like I was a fucking margarita glass. Later, when a pair of tragically cheery Quecha walked in and commenced with a high pitched, Andean rendition of Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits, I could have dismembered their panpipes and shoved each carved tube of yew (yewtube, ha) into their eyes.

Epilogue: I have struck all Simon and Garfunkel from my computer.

And, just for the hell of it: