The time-suck

Today I am tired. Partially because I'm anemic and all I've had to eat was a bagel with peanut butter, and partially because of the time-suck that is Rock Band. Late was I playing Rock Band, 20 miles from my bed. Played until the morn, we did. And soon there will be 'Rock Band 2' a more improved version of Rock Band 1. I almost fear for my life.

The drums are better, quieter; more deadly. Stealthy like a cobra as it attacks a weasel. Or ferret. Or whatever it is that cobra's fight when they aren't dancing for money in baskets (whores). And worst of all is the limited edition ION drum kit. With cymbals. And it can be used as a full digital drum kit (coupled with a 'brain'). Not only is this evil and unholy, it's also a health hazard. Health AND social hazard! I'll never leave my apartment, I'll be fired from my job and be forced to become a freelance typographer out of survival instinct. My diet will consist only of rats and drummers who rock less than I. I fear my only friends will become half-microwaved burritos and that I'll need to have splints on my arms at all times, no, need to have my arms REPLACED with drum sticks because of my addiction to Rock Band 2!

This will make creating fonts unnecessarily difficult for myself and someone will be forced, probably at gun poi... er... drum stick point, to create a program/computer so that I can still sculpt my creations. More than likely this will result in a mind computer. Then all of my ideas will become reality. This shall eventually lead to unnatural success as a freelance typographer and I will be hunted like Frankenstein or the Easter Bunny. Luckily my legs are so in shape from the Rock Band 2 double bass, that I'm able to outrun everyone (with the mind computer on my back) and hide in a light house. There I will make my most beautiful creation.

It will be hailed as the greatest font ever created. It will have the most elegant and subtle serifs that make it the best body type ever AND be simultaneously sans serif and become Helvetica's successor. I shall be named king and I will rule over peasants. They will give me presents. Like a jet pack. And I will fly off into the sunset and probably die trying to eat the moon thinking it to be made of cheese. Muenster or Red Dragon, hopefully. But, as my final breath is sucked from my lungs by the blackness of space all I can think about is how I have no idea where I'm going to get a cracker big enough to satisfy the cheese sphere.