it sucks when you don't have their phone number yet

I usually try not to be too elliptical and real-life weird in my blog, because it's not entertaining and the people I'm not trying to send a message to are merely bored or confused. But here goes:

Confidential to Sad in Syracuse: call home, lady, call home. I'm around.

Apologies for the postcard-style blogging of late. I feel like I don't have a lot to say, but some of the bits are entertaining. At least, I am amused by my celebrity hijinks. Now if I could only get the zombies to eat Kevin Federline, I'd be doing the world some good.

me and my big mouth

Zombies back.

Not really an improvement over LiLo, although arguably less vapid.

no more gossip magazines for me

Okay, last night I had a dream that I was Lindsay Lohan. Thanks, dream cells, but I think I prefer the hordes of ravening zombies.

psycho neighbour, qu'est-ce que c'est?

Yep, my neighbours have stepped up their display of unbalanced behaviour once more. I would post the contents of their latest wacky screed, but I'm sort of hoping it becomes evidence either for the cops or for evicting their crazy asses. The good news is that this time it has nothing to do with me. The bad news is that they generally communicate with whoever they're angry at by posting multiple copies of angry letters up and down the entire stairwell. Updates as I get 'em.

In other news, I had a dream about making out with Angelina Jolie. This could be a sign of the apocalypse.