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Had to gussy up this here account, but we're all good now. I only discovered there was anything amiss when I tried to log in on a new browser. Crack job, LJ security.
I'm digging this new Firefox; The picture-in-picture option is a delight and means I can write and stream at the same time. I foresee a marked increase in creative productivity, as well as streaming. If it weren't for the fact that GMail and Amazon would probably have paroxysms if I logged in from an unfamiliar browser, I'd switch outright. The interface is just so easy and pretty and so much better than when I last used it ten years ago.
I'm trying to read The Prince of Darkness, the autobiography of Robert D. Novak, but it is a dreadful slog, and I might have to throw in the towel. I know men are often full of themselves and convinced of their innate greatness, but Novak is a class unto himself. He wrote deadly dull political op-eds for almost fifty years, most of which left no imprint on the collective consciousness whatsoever, but to hear him tell it, his scribblings reshaped the American landscape.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, you vainglorious, insufferable prune. I'm three hundred pages in to this tribute to medieval torture, and all you've done is detail innumerable lunches at a terrible, seedy French restaurant in which you got wall-eyed with your "sources." So you "predicted" Watergate. Big whoop. Any multicellular organism with the barest whiff of awareness could've grokked that one. No prize for you. The only reason you ever got into the news is because you were the scoop-chasing assbag who outed Valerie Plame. You sir, are a prick of the first water, and I'm not sorry you died slowly and painfully. I can't help but wonder if your long-suffering wife felt a guilty rush of relief as you wheezed your last, doubtless mooning over your greatness and the illustrious reception due you in the afterlife. To hear you tell it, all she was was a handmaiden to your ambition whom you allowed to bask in your reflected glory and scrub the shitstains from your underwear. I hope she popped champagne on your grave.
I'm digging this new Firefox; The picture-in-picture option is a delight and means I can write and stream at the same time. I foresee a marked increase in creative productivity, as well as streaming. If it weren't for the fact that GMail and Amazon would probably have paroxysms if I logged in from an unfamiliar browser, I'd switch outright. The interface is just so easy and pretty and so much better than when I last used it ten years ago.
I'm trying to read The Prince of Darkness, the autobiography of Robert D. Novak, but it is a dreadful slog, and I might have to throw in the towel. I know men are often full of themselves and convinced of their innate greatness, but Novak is a class unto himself. He wrote deadly dull political op-eds for almost fifty years, most of which left no imprint on the collective consciousness whatsoever, but to hear him tell it, his scribblings reshaped the American landscape.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, you vainglorious, insufferable prune. I'm three hundred pages in to this tribute to medieval torture, and all you've done is detail innumerable lunches at a terrible, seedy French restaurant in which you got wall-eyed with your "sources." So you "predicted" Watergate. Big whoop. Any multicellular organism with the barest whiff of awareness could've grokked that one. No prize for you. The only reason you ever got into the news is because you were the scoop-chasing assbag who outed Valerie Plame. You sir, are a prick of the first water, and I'm not sorry you died slowly and painfully. I can't help but wonder if your long-suffering wife felt a guilty rush of relief as you wheezed your last, doubtless mooning over your greatness and the illustrious reception due you in the afterlife. To hear you tell it, all she was was a handmaiden to your ambition whom you allowed to bask in your reflected glory and scrub the shitstains from your underwear. I hope she popped champagne on your grave.
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