No, I'm not back for good. I'm merely here to post up some quick up-to-date factoids to those who, for some voyeuristic reason, still give a shit about my whereabouts. You people, scare me. Seriously, you do.

   But what scares me more is coming back here from time-to-time, only to see just how deeply self-contained this place has become. I peruse the pages, and the colour that comes to my mind is white. Not just any white; sterile white. That's the best word I can use to describe Xanga: Sterile. Xanga is a safe haven for those with no ingenuity, no independent attitude; no desire to grow and advance.

   Xanga is interesting because it serves as an example of the lengths people will go to, to make money. So far as to even create a self-contained bubble; one from which nothing can escape, but plenty can enter. I think of that movie: "Blast From The Past"; or various "lock-in" jokes from various sitcoms. You know, where people are locked into a claustrophobic setting; someone opens the door; then it shuts behind them. The kind of delerious irony that makes most chuckle--but in the case of Xanga: it makes me weep.

   A lot of you here have genuine talent; and it seems more like you're wasting it on this site. Then again: Xanga serves as nothing more than an online personal diary; so I guess I shouldn't give as much of a shit about where you fuckers end up. And honestly, I really don't.

   I could count on one hand the number of people here who have left; and I still want to keep in touch with them, and still not use all my fingers. Except one special one. Maybe.

   Ah, but here I go digressing from what I really wanted to talk about. See, I've given you the delusion that this entry is in any way about you sodding twats. Rather, I'm only here to remind you all that I do exist, and I am still a surly cuntwipe. It also gives me the chance to whip my massive egocock out; stroke it a few times over your heads; and unleash my torrents of narcisisstic vitriol all over your naive faces. Essentially, I'm just being a prick for the sake of being a prick. But you knew that already, didn't you? Sneaky tits.

   I've recently started and cancelled a webshow due to the ravings of power-hungry trolls. I was also a writer and editor of a fledging gaming site; but that fell due to the aforementioned trolls. Apparently, I'm racist for mocking someone's supposed "Chinese little brother", but other parties are not racist for referring to my girlfriend as a "Mail-order bride". As if I haven't heard THAT one enough already. For the record, Ritz, please don't get upset. Remember that the words of the ignorant and bigoted have no effect nor power over those with larger minds.

   Me and Ritz have been dating for over a year now (13 months as of this month). It's been rocky for us, but we have plans set in motion to meet, and be together next year. The finality that will bring us together is something we'd like to discuss with some of our closest friends, when the time is right. For the rest of you relationship perverts: you'll hear about it (inevitably) when that time comes (Ie much, MUCH later).
   Ritz is much more than I can put into words. A hell of a lot more than I can ever write about in some insipid blog; or even put to song (but you know damn well I'm going to try). It's amazing how, despite her vulnerabilities, she continuously can bounce back from things; and carry on with her love and affection for me. It's her uncanny, unrelenting passion for things that amazes me the most. Whatever it may be, if something strikes Ritz's fancy; and heart, she'll pour herself into it, as if her very life depended on it.
   Me and Ritz have come a long, long way since we started out. We've both learned a lot about ourselves, and how we interact with each other. We've been learning our limits, and how to surpass them. But most importantly: We've learned what real love is like; and what lengths one must be willing to go to, to obtain that love. Oh, nothing crazy like selling one's soul to some ficticious maelevolent deity. Simply...: What one must be willing to endure, to truly find happiness and love.

   You can't imagine how deeply I miss her, when she's not around. Nor can you imagine how badly I need her by my side (physically). It's the thought of being with her that keeps me going; and go I shall.

   In other news (seeing as it's near impossible to adequately segue out of talking about my love): I've gotten back into gaming (somewhat), and can be found on my PS3 by adding the PSN ID: Axikal . My current online game library consists of: Resistance 2, Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare (I avoid this as often as I can, though), Uncharted 2: Among Thieves, and Metal Gear Online.
   Personally, I hate the online community; and loathe most of the people I come in contact with. Don't friend me if you're not prepared to hear endless strings of: "Oh go fuck off you prattish little n00bfucks!". I can assure you that you will hear something to that effect at least ONCE per game.

   Oh, and before I go, I'd like to address all of you who have been sending mass messages: You know what? We get it. People don't like mass messages. People cringe when they read the words: "sent to ___'s Friends / Subscribers" in the footer of each message. Stop starting your fucking messages with "Oh I noes you no likey da mass messages, I r not care lololololol". Shut the fuck up.
   None of you are witty, clever, or fucking edgy. You're trying to hard to elicit a laugh in order to detract from the fact that you mass sent a form letter to people you don't give two shits about; trying to get them to read your latest piece of drivel; or point them to some insipid event that is hosted by two French people with fucking Downs Syndrome.
   It's people like you that made me want to leave this bottomless void of unoriginality in the first goddamn place. Piss off already. Your level of wit is on par with the likes of Dane Cook, and Carlos Mencia. And it's disgusting. And you're cluttering up my dusty inbox with your unpleasant fetterings. Cunts.

   I guess that's all for now. I'm off to continue my Fraiser marathon (thanks to the wonderful people at tvshack.net!), and await the phonecall that will determine if I am taking up a second job or not. Oh, and I also own a 60" TV now. Suck on that, you pricks.