I don’t really want to talk about anything anymore, other than Final Fantasy XIII. It’s okay though, because I misinterpret signals. For instance, with your dull expression and glazed eyes, I’m assuming that you’re totally stoked that I’m rambling about it again. Like, how, you know, Lightning is totally sweating on me. And she’s gorgeous. And I bet she has like a futuristic spaceship, and she listens to Mastodon, and she seriously loves when I fart and get crumbs everywhere.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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