Jennifer Lawrence is my god

Jennifer Lawrence is my god.

I don't know why I didn't see it earlier. Maybe it's because my mind was shut. I blindly believed in all of their gods and all of their beliefs; all of the rituals, especially on a Sunday; all of the lessons in school that they could not prove.

But then again, I was young, and I easily believed what I was told. But now I'm older. I can think for myself. Or at least I think I can think for myself. And I have seen things, and I have put two and two together, and now I can definitely say that, yes, this is what I believe. And I believe that Jennifer Lawrence is my god.

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A check mark beside your name

So Twitter's rolling out a new interface, and it looks like Facebook, and I don't care, because I use TweetDeck to maintain two accounts.

"Randomly went to Mo Twister's Twitter page and saw his profile has been converted to the newer-newer Twitter design," Anna tweeted. "Oh."

"And your point is?" I replied. "It's not a snotty question, I swear."

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Six hours on average

Today is a national holiday, which explains why I could afford to stay up late last night.

Well, actually, I stayed up really late, I might as well change that last sentence. Today is a national holiday, which explain why I could afford to stay up early this morning.

Okay, that did not quite sound right.

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I write this blog entry an extremely sleepy man.

One of our dogs somehow hooked up with another one on the street. I saw it and all. Over two months later she has given birth to seven pups, and while they're feeding on milk we have to keep watch over them. This has meant a complex sequence of tasks that involves knowing when to lock the mother in her cage with her kids, when to let her out, how much to feed her and when, and how to deal with our other dog who's gotten lonelier (or more bitter) by the day.

I woke up at half past three this morning. I was, technically, woken up, by the new mother's barking; she wanted to be let out of her cage. She, apparently, had to take a dump. I unlocked the back door and opened her cage, but, as it turns out, her collar has gotten loose, so she managed to get away (and dump at the other end of the backyard). And I managed to lose the padlock to the back door. Well, it slipped from my grasp and it ended up inside the cage with seven rowdy puppies, but I am bleary eyed, and already paranoid, thinking that someone might break into our house and kill me off or something.

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Because, apparently, the 1975 is a big thing

Now, before you grab pitchforks and call me a hipster, lemme clarify something: I don't have an opinion about the 1975. They're just this band I've heard on my many sojourns on foreign radio, with a song about chocolate and a song about sex; I never really just cared about them, no matter what they did.

Well, maybe it's not surprising that they were brought here for a series of mall shows. An inhumane number, I still maintain: four mall shows in two days (plus a hastily-added "fan meet" on a third) is a bad idea in an urban region where traffic is king. But that aside, not surprising. They're a pop band. They're young and cute and apparently have relatable songs. I can't tell; I'm no longer a teenager.

My dad noticed their billboard along C5 as we went home from work one night, and he asked me: "are they all born in 1975?" They got their name from a poetry book, apparently, when they were still struggling musicians in the early noughties. Maybe they aren't young, after all.

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