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Apropos of nothing, why do I get more spam when I report it to AOL than I do if I just delete it?
Because I was so obsessed with The Verve Pipe's "The Freshmen", I didn't pop in my Rammstein CD until the day before yesterday.
Oh, my God, I am in love. If it weren't for the fact that everyone else has known about them since 1994, I'd be running through the streets, passing out their CDs like religious tracts and leftist, hippie newspapers cranked out of basement printing presses. The mixture of techno and metal is genius, and because I am a naughty, naughty girl in desperate need of a right good shagging, the first thought that popped into my head when I heard Till Lindemann's voice was, As God as my witness, that man's got to be packing a kielbasa the size of King Kong's pocket rocket in his pants. That man has bass. Serious, serious bass. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was singing in an empty grain silo.
I dug them so much, I ran out and bought Live aus Berlin yesterday, and I know what CDs I'll be collecting the coming months. French is the language of love. Spanish is the language of seduction. Latin is the language of the dead. German is the language of helping you get there. Even when they're trying to say, "I love you."
German sounds as if a lawnmower has learned the power of speech. And it is awesome. I took four years of German in college and loved it, but I had great difficulty with detached prefixes and the various "werden" constructions, and the lack of German speakers made it hard to maintain proficiency. While most of my grammatical skills are intact, my vocabulary has all but disappeared. Listening to Rammstein makes me miss it.
Unsurprisingly, I still speak Spanish almost fluently.
Long ramble short: I am a Rammstein convert. I'm not sure I want to know what "Bueck Dich" means, however; "Spiel Mit Mir" is conjuring images all by itself, as is "Tier".
Since I never say it often enough, I want to tell everyone and remind myself of how awesome and special Roomie is. We've been friends, roommates, and sporadic lovers for ten years, and while it is true that he can be a neurotic, lazy, entitled ass flake, he is also one of the most loyal, patient people I've ever met. He's cleaned up more shit, piss, and spewing vomit than anyone should ever have to without being paid for it, and yet he's never gotten a cent. He gets me up in the morning and puts me to bed at night. He cooks lunch and dinner every day, and he often comes to rescue me from myself when I've performed a feat of limper gymnastics that has turned a trip to the crapper into a crazed Cirque du Soleil. He nurses me through panic attacks and plans ways to cheer me up when I'm moping. He sits through godawful horror movies because he knows I like them, and he encourages my frantic Flack scribblings.
I might complain, loudly and indignantly, on those rare days that he falters, but I know damn well how lucky I am to have him, and how lucky I am that he has chosen to spend his life with me.
I love you, Roomie.
Because I was so obsessed with The Verve Pipe's "The Freshmen", I didn't pop in my Rammstein CD until the day before yesterday.
Oh, my God, I am in love. If it weren't for the fact that everyone else has known about them since 1994, I'd be running through the streets, passing out their CDs like religious tracts and leftist, hippie newspapers cranked out of basement printing presses. The mixture of techno and metal is genius, and because I am a naughty, naughty girl in desperate need of a right good shagging, the first thought that popped into my head when I heard Till Lindemann's voice was, As God as my witness, that man's got to be packing a kielbasa the size of King Kong's pocket rocket in his pants. That man has bass. Serious, serious bass. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was singing in an empty grain silo.
I dug them so much, I ran out and bought Live aus Berlin yesterday, and I know what CDs I'll be collecting the coming months. French is the language of love. Spanish is the language of seduction. Latin is the language of the dead. German is the language of helping you get there. Even when they're trying to say, "I love you."
German sounds as if a lawnmower has learned the power of speech. And it is awesome. I took four years of German in college and loved it, but I had great difficulty with detached prefixes and the various "werden" constructions, and the lack of German speakers made it hard to maintain proficiency. While most of my grammatical skills are intact, my vocabulary has all but disappeared. Listening to Rammstein makes me miss it.
Unsurprisingly, I still speak Spanish almost fluently.
Long ramble short: I am a Rammstein convert. I'm not sure I want to know what "Bueck Dich" means, however; "Spiel Mit Mir" is conjuring images all by itself, as is "Tier".
Since I never say it often enough, I want to tell everyone and remind myself of how awesome and special Roomie is. We've been friends, roommates, and sporadic lovers for ten years, and while it is true that he can be a neurotic, lazy, entitled ass flake, he is also one of the most loyal, patient people I've ever met. He's cleaned up more shit, piss, and spewing vomit than anyone should ever have to without being paid for it, and yet he's never gotten a cent. He gets me up in the morning and puts me to bed at night. He cooks lunch and dinner every day, and he often comes to rescue me from myself when I've performed a feat of limper gymnastics that has turned a trip to the crapper into a crazed Cirque du Soleil. He nurses me through panic attacks and plans ways to cheer me up when I'm moping. He sits through godawful horror movies because he knows I like them, and he encourages my frantic Flack scribblings.
I might complain, loudly and indignantly, on those rare days that he falters, but I know damn well how lucky I am to have him, and how lucky I am that he has chosen to spend his life with me.
I love you, Roomie.
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