My name is ridiculous. T.J. DeGroat all together is fine. That is actually a pretty decent byline. But TJ? Or worse yet, tj? When I get an email that starts with "hi tj," I want to scream. What a lame name! Say it outloud, slowly. T-E-E-J-A-Y.



Ridiculous.

The 9-5 grind lends itself to seeing the same people over and over again during the commute. I've seen the same dude reading "Gone with the Wind" every day for the past week. Besides being shocked that anyone over the age of 22 would actually read that (college classes, you know. I was supposed to read it, but typically rented the movie instead and barely got through that), I'm also a bit disappointed that he hasn't gotten very far.

This site, which documents the horror of drunk driving, is one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen. As Candy says, spread the cheer.

You ain't fazin' this caucasian.

I don't think 35-year-old men should call themselves boys. You are not a boy, you are practically middle-aged.

Despite having no talent for painting, drawing or the like, on my way home today I decided I want to be an artist. So, with my credit card in hand, I confidentally walked into Flax, a fancy schmancy art store on Market St. Back in the apartment, with my new canvas, three colors of paint and the cheapest brushes I could find, I set to work feeling motivated. All that inspiration disappeared, though, when I realized I was painting the canvas cobalt blue without having removed the plastic from the bristles of my brush.

I have to go to a crab and wine festival today, despite liking neither crab nor wine. But I suppose spending my weekends the way I really want, meaning in my armchair, with my new inspiron on my lap and my TV on, would be a bad thing.



[Love you]