The trouble with having the databasey blog (aside from the spambardment which... well... FUCK!!) is the tendency to start posts and never finish them. So I've got a handful of scraps from the past few days that were gorgeous elements of someday-will-be-longer posts, all of which are now widows and orphans. Poor little widows and orphans.

The other problem is that the fucktards at the Paramount lied right in my face when I asked them about whether there would be an IMAX screening of Superman tonight. (Them: "No." Truth: "Yes." Conclusion: "Lying whores.") This sucks harlot balls. But I spent today on my feet at a roadshow hawking a new personal data device which - I admit - I fell a little too in love with for a relatively non-yuppie sort of fellow like myself, so the ultimate outcome is that I probably wouldn't have the energy for the Man of Steel tonight anyway. For I am a man of limp cellophane.

Yesterday I had a stress test at the hospital. It was fun. Running on a treadmill is fun. I guess they don't have too many 29-year-olds in there because they kept asking me if I needed to stop. I said "I played 2 soccer games in the sun yesterday afternoon. Just warn me when you crank this thing up to a flat-out sprint." Which they never even did! What's more stressful than flat-out sprinting? Nothing. So why not test it?

The weird part is that I was stressed about the stress test. Actually I've been fairly anxious for the past week or so, for reasons I'm still having trouble nailing down. (Oh, I know what they are, I just can't nail them down. They skitter.) It's really pissing me off. It's that constant "book report tomorrow morning" feeling, with a tomorrow morning that will never come. I can't quite shake it. Remember back in the '80s when there wsa a book called The Joy of Stress.? I shoulda read it, maybe then all this stress could be joyful.

Instead I'm reading Lost (not the TV show, even a little bit), which is so stulteringly awful that I'm actually sort of surprised that it's a book, like when a director makes a movie so bad that you assume that such a feat is actually impossible because the guy is so inept that how did he know how to turn on the camera? Like that, only in book form.

OK that's it, gotta figure out something worthwhile to do before I pull my scrotum over my head and sing Rule Britannia.