The Sorting Twat

After abandoning the burning, sinking corpse-barge that is LiveJournal and importing all my superimportant and relevant and totally smart journal entries to this here Blogger address, I have learned that one is able to label said entries with the topics addressed IN said entries.
Wow.
So, as of right...now, I have labeled about two and a half years worth of my near decade of fuckrants, rambles and fuckrambles®, and I've noticed something...I address a hell of a lot of topics.
My brain is like a beehive filled with angry, stupendous beavers.
A BEEHIVE FILLED WITH ANGRY, STUPENDOUS BEAVERS.

I'm also tired today as I had my most recent recording session with the Speakaboos crowd. We did Jack and The Beanstalk, with me narrating and playing the giant. I was going to play an annoyed cow, but we had some rerecords from previous sessions to take care of as well, so no annoyed cow.
I did get to say a line as an irritated genie in the style of Paul Lynde though, which is better than an annoyed cow.
After that I went home, became sleepy, then set off for a major league soccer audition.
I tried not to laugh, I really did...but...guys, come on...soccer? Me?
You send me out on a Junior Mints audition or a sleeping audition or for some anti-sweating coalition and I am down...but soccer? Sports?
Barking up. The wrong. Tree.

And now I'm here.
Soon after this riveting glimpse into the life of a tall, beautiful voice actor is wrapped up, I'll continue sorting my past journal entries into categories so solipsistic and oblique that you'll HAVE to read them*, just to attain some understanding of me, and then I will finish reading my good friend Phil's latest literary abortion.
Hm. That could be misunderstood.
Phil started writing a new novel and then stopped.
I'm reading it to see if it should remain stopped or if he should consider finishing it.
Not that my word is law, but, sometimes, I my enthusiasm  in such matters can be helpful.
So far I'm enjoying it and look forward to the end of chapter fourteen (which is as far as Phil got), at which point I'll ask him what happens next and he'll shrug and I'll cry.

Tomorrow night is Chris' birthday party.
I'll be there.
That's about all I can tell you for sure.



*You probably won't. Won't have to and won't read them.