Sunken State

Salem says that I do not exist, that I am not real. The person who writes these dumb blog posts is whom, Salem?

My existence is the demise of many others' arms and legs.

There's a rock opera that I've obtained recently, by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, which is essentially just Savatage with an orchestra. Beethoven's Last Night-- In it, Beethoven is approached by Mephistopheles, who wants to remove every trace, every memory of Beethoven's music from history. Why? Because he's a dick, I guess.

I've been reading Quicksilver for the past couple days. It is volume one of the Baroque Cycle, a story that is probably around four thousand pages long, if you were to count Cryptonomicon. Four thousand pages of awesome. The story (as far as I've read) revolves around alchemy, a subject I love. When you factor in my fascination with Enoch Root, the novel transcends to new levels of ass-kickery. I'm going to enjoy this.

I've decided I want to start collecting hats. Am I serious? Yes. Have I lost my marbles? Also yes. But I've refused to throw this thought away, and I'm generally just a hat loving guy by nature, so I'm doing it. Imagine, every day you walk around with a different type of fucking hat on. As long as I don't start trying to collect hats of historical significance, like something that you might find in a museum, it shouldn't put me in poverty or anything. Like Magic the Gathering.

So here are a list of hats I must have:

Bicorne
Tricorne
Beret
Bowler
Top
Bucket
Conical Straw
Fez
Sombrero
Ushanka
Tuque
Flat
Kepi
Garrison
Coonskin
Chef
Bard

Okay, time for me to get out of here. It's killing hour.