Itas its first year 2000.

Your time machine has landed you, for some peculiar reason, on the flooring of my living room.

I’m intentlyA focused onA my computer screen, trying to chooseA between three evenly bad photographs of myself.

Politely forgetting to tell me that I’m wasting my day because MySpace won’t exist in a few short years regardless, “youre feeling” compelled to ask two very specific questions 😛 TAGEND

First, awhat the f *$#@ did you do to your fuzz? a

( To answer your question, the guy on the front of the DIY kit I bought had FROSTED TIPS , not half of his head dyed orange. That was an embarrassingA few months .)

How I reckoned I’d appear vs. How I actually looked.

Second, awhat did you do the working day? a

aWhat a weird question, a I reply, peculiarly ignoring the fact that a stranger merely spontaneously appeared in my house.

And then Iad think.

And think…

And think…

And Iad get forestalled, because I know Iad done material, but Iad struggle to tell you, aside from one or two large-scale things, what Iad actually achieved that day.

What did YOU get done yesterday?

My reaction to that question actually wouldave stayed the same for many years beyond 2000, but 😛 TAGEND I needed to share my pity about my laughable fuzz downfalls of the early 21 st century, and Perhaps if Nick Lachey sees that someone used a photo of him on the internet, heall be comforted, if exclusively for a epoch, by the fact that we havenat all forgotten about him. aI wish I could get more donea aI genuinely should be more productivea aIf exclusively I could do morea