Just like the one where Ross makes a list of reasons why he shouldn't be with Rachel
Top five reasons why my ex-blog shouldn’t take me back.
5. I love twitter more than I love it, and it knows it.
4. It will always fear the truth; that I am a non-commital bastard who will dump it again at the drop of a post.
3. It’s been so happy here without anyone looking at it and clicking on it inappropriately. It feels like it doesn’t need anyone and is fine on it’s own. FINE.
2. It knows that it can do so much better. All the other blogs are always telling it this when they come alive. At night. When everyone’s asleep.
1. It’s not me, it’s it. Isn’t it?
"I am slightly sick in my mouth"
Living off the land, in case of sudden apocalypse (see: 28 Days Later).
You may want to figure out what burdock looks like before you try. Because I had to google it and who knows if google will be around when the world ends? Especially since apparently, and if you’re like me you’ll find this quite interesting, electricity would only last 2 days if everyone was to die in a putrid mess.
In other news, Google thinks I have leprosy because two of my fingers have gone mysteriously numb. Maybe we’re better off without the google, really.
Best hotel room eva
So you may have noticed I was gone like a little gone person. I was Londoning.
Stayed in the best little Hotel ever. Our room was actually a suite of three rooms and a downstairs bathroom with one of those lovely (if leaky) claw footed baths.
Creaky floorbeds and smithfield markets. And big jugs of hot chocolate and letting us check in at 10am cause the room was empty the night before.
Rookery Hotel, I love you this —————- much.
Looks like Ant is as unhappy with itself as I am with it.
This is incredibly nerdorific but it’s also a little bit pretty so I reckon it gets a pass.
What do programmers feel about their software?
via Metafilter.
"They call me Mr Boombastic. You can call me Monty"
Came across these on kottke. London Review of Books lonely hearts pages. They are very witty indeed, some of them. A little scary.
“I vacillate wildly between a number of archetypes including, but not limited to, Muriel Spark witticism-trading doyenne, Mariella Frostrup charismatic socialite, brooding, intense Marianne Faithful visionary, and kleptomaniac Germaine Greer amateur upholsterer and ladies’ league darts champion. Woman, 43. Everything I just said was a lie. Apart from the bit about darts. And kleptomania. Great tits though. Box no. 2236.”
