Why I Loathe Damon Lindelof

As an executive producer of a much-loved television serial, you have an obligation to your fans to occasionally toss them a freakin’ bone. Having just watched the season 3 finale of Lost, I feel like Mr. Lindelof owes me 72 hours of my life back and a commensurate monetary reimbursement for the emotional investment I have put into his work . Why, oh, why does he insist on producing five more questions for every question answered in the series? Call me when the final season comes out on DVD. I can’t take this anymore!

In addition to the airwave drug that Mr. Lindelof peddles, he torments the reclusive and oft-misunderstood community of graphic novel collectors. Listen to me, Damon, there should be a clause in the Geneva Convention that stipulates that you can not have the Incredible Hulk rip Wolverine into two pieces and forever leave your audience wiping up their spewed chocolaty YooHoo drink and dreaming about a wheelchair-bound, adamantium-laced gulomorph. I’m sticking to Archie you jerk!

A Farewell to Ingrid

It's a weird concept to me that I no longer have to keep my thoughts and feelings locked away in my pretty, black velvet, pony-jumping-rainbow diary. The cathartic ramblings of an introverted misanthrope can now be magically transformed into words of misguidance and cheap entertainment for a voyeuristic and critical society. The truth is, I take solace in the fact that, unless I become Katie Couric's meal ticket on the 6 o'clock news, this blog will never be viewed but by a handful of people. I can say things like: "poop" and "it was only on top of the trash pile so I ate it" and not be judged by the contingency of idiots who actually watch and enjoy Katie Couric. I hate blogs...or at least I used to. It now joins my list of "Things I Used to Hate, but Now Marginally Entertain" along with cell phones, mushrooms, and carnival folk. To me, "blog" sounds like the monosyllabic logorrhea you would hear from a Saturday-morning-cartoon alien race that's trying to converse with the more intelligent (or are they?) throng of cute little forest creatures (hilarity ensues). At any rate, most anything I initially hate, I eventually realize I can tolerate in small doses. Hence my Paracelsian mantra: Alle Ding' sind Gift und nichts ohn' Gift; allein die Dosis macht, dass ein Ding kein Gift ist ("All things are poison and nothing is without poison, only the dose permits something not to be poisonous"). "Goodbye," my teenage-angst-holding diary with a heart shaped lock; "Hello," internet.