yo. yo. yo.

well, here it begins -- the downward spiral into self-indulgent twitter twatter -- where pseudo-intellectuals go to die, and talk endlessly about it. The blog. The long-winded monologue. The monoblogue. The techno-craze that picks up where seventh grade diaries left off -- except instead of logging what exactly you had for dinner, or rhapsodizing naively about that boy you like, you yammer about politics, obscure bands, and rhapsodize naively about that guy you love.

so, what's in this for me? Everything. i get to talk and talk to myself. And then read it later. i'm thinking of chronicling life in the big bad city where i live, ie the city that thinks it's God's gift to cities - Toronto. Something about its paltry skyline, its smug attitude, and depressing lack of mexican restaraunts seems to call out for a story. Or else, I might dip into ranting and raving about the often idiotic job I have found myself in - as a copywriter in a high-profile advertising agency, where I spend my days composing junk mail that no one will read, flashy words in envelopes that will flutter pathetically to the ground from mailboxes across the country, on brochures that sit untouched at grocery counters, in websites that get less hits than an acid junkie in rehab. Such a silly profession screams for satire -- a desperately un-hip cast of characters roams the hallway of this agency -- has-beens and never-has-beens spend their days coming up with the next big idea -- as long as it's small enough to fit into an 8x10 envelope. We'll dig further into that goldmine another day.

For now, I stick with introduction. Aimless, shameless, blameless. Clearly a believer that rhyme is good in any situation, even if it makes little to no sense. I'll attempt to make fun of everything and anything, including myself. We'll call it Zinging 101.

Holla.