This may come as a shock to most of you, but I take pride in my stupid little blog.

Don’t ask me why, but I do. Beyond my way of just venting my frustrations about this ricockulous world we live in, I also like to think that it’s my way of enriching the masses. And by “masses,” I mean the half-dozen people that actually read this thing. Be that as it may, I never intended for this to be a personal extension of my everyday life, which seems to be the average blog these days.

Now admittedly, in the early days of LSS, way back in the fall of ’02, I would gripe a lot about the situations I encountered at graduate school, and I suppose that in a way, that could be considered a source of pointless bitching. I’ll concede to that much, but I’d also like to point out that on the flipside of that coin, my frequent complaints were often used as anecdotal segues into more elaborate rants about the pitfalls of our modern education system, and the troglodytes that inhabit both the administrations and student bodies.

And that's the thing. Even when I was on about how '04 was a miserable year for me, I was still able to extend that feeling of discontent with my personal life and apply it to the big picture of what was (and for that matter, still is) going on in the world. When I do lengthy posts, if I can't apply my sad little existence on this rock to something infinitely bigger and uglier, I'm wasting my time.

No, I truly believe that my intent in creating this blog was, and always has been, to offer a podium for myself to preach from. Call it the “soapbox” effect. That’s where I stand on my soapbox, offer up my opinions with my own brand of logic and uncommon sense, and you either agree or disagree with me. And yes, not everyone that reads my stuff is in agreement with me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never claimed to be the end-all, be-all fountain of information. I can only talk about the things I believe to be true or unsettling about life, plain and simple.

What saddens me is that I find my personal brand of writing on the web to be something of a lost art. And that’s not to sound pretentious and say that I’m the daddy of the mack-daddy when it comes to editorials and the like. More accurately, I find these types of blogs or forums to be a dying breed. People on the Internet don’t seem to have opinions anymore. Have you noticed this? Unless you happen to be a Star Wars fanatic who is more than content to bitch about Jar Jar and the fact Revenge Of The Sith offered no explanation as to how Darth Vader goes to the bathroom with that suit on.

My theory is that he has a pee-latch.

But seriously… unless you’re the beloved kind of übergeek that prowls message boards trying to unravel the mysteries of Lost and Lindsay Lohan’s weight loss, the fact is that most of us who do post anything on the Internet in any type of forum pretty much kvetch about the mundane goings-on in our meager little lives.

Not for nothing, but I really don’t want to know what’s irking you.

I don’t care who your friends are, I don’t care what you’re listening to right now, I don’t care what your mood is, I don’t care how Von Goethe and The Crow changed your life, I don’t care what you did (or didn’t do) this past Saturday night, and I certainly don’t care to hear about all the so-called “drama” that permeates your wretched existence, capice?

I’m sure you’re probably wondering what brought on this diatribe to end all diatribes, and I’ll tell you. Several months ago, I was dating a girl who shall remain nameless. My blog inspired her to create her own. I seem to have this effect on people. Difference being that her blog is a window to her life, whereas I prefer to think of our blogs as a window to our thoughts. There’s a big difference.

We have long since broken up, and while I have nothing against her personally, I also have no interest in seeing her again, plain and simple. But I have noticed that over the last few months, her posts have gotten increasingly personal, and downright pig-headed in their arrogance. Now chalk this up to hubris, or just being a moody girl in your early 20’s, but trying to read these things without stabbing myself in my scrotum is like trying to sit through an episode of Fat Actress without stabbing myself in my scrotum. Damn near impossible.

To begin with, this sparks the entire, “what-the-hell-did-I-ever-see-in-you” curiosity factor, where I am forced to question my own judgment since at one point I dated such a unbelievably conceited, petty excuse for a human being.

But that’s just the tip of the irritable iceberg. In having perused this person’s blog, I have also browsed the comments left on her posts by others. Naturally, these third parties are friends… but the bulk of the comments in response to her words all pertain to overly-hyped, overly-dramatic situations of the 90210 variety.

That’s right. Not only are these posts regarding incidents that are highly personal, and better left unknown to the Internet community, but all parties involved are now getting in on the action, so eager to share their side of the story, making for one mother of a clusterfuck.

This is what pisses me off. Y’know, journals are not meant to be shared, which is probably why I never opted to do this thing on livejournal.com. I want my personal problems and relations to remain as such. They’re in my hands, and I’m more than happy to deal with them either by myself or with the assistance of a select circle of friends and family. I don’t see the need to share such woes with a few billion people.

By that same rationale, I really don’t care to know what’s going on in other peoples’ lives. At least not at that deep a level. Nor do I see the reason why anyone would want to read such drivel. I suppose to some extent, it’s the same innate, sick curiosity that draws the masses to reality television. And I’m sure that for the writers’ relations, it’s an even stronger pull considering that the main party is known to them.

But seriously… I really don’t give a fuck.

I don’t expect what I do to become the norm. I accept the fact that I’m a minority in this tangled worldwide web, and not only do I acknowledge that notion, but I embrace it. I like being the castaway content to run my own little gravy train, and I openly invite anyone who likes a good read to give my stuff a looksie.

But as welcome as you all are to partake in my opinions, ramblings and perspectives, I simply do not want you all to know how so-and-so went behind so-and-so’s back, or how John Doe, Mrs. Butterworth and I all went to see Kung Fu Hustle last Tuesday and some guy in the front row streaked the place.

I should mention that at one point, I was heavily considering posting a link this individual’s blog just to give you an idea of the sort of rot I’m talking about. But I’ve since reconsidered this. Now that's not because I'm trying to be the bigger person post-breakup or anything. After all, you do know how I love to burst the bubble of big bullshitters, and this would've been a prime opportunity to do so.

No, I simply rethought things and figured that since she already seems comfortable sharing this crap with so many… why vindicate her misgivings?

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

It’s been a while since this has happened, but I encountered something this week that truly disgusted me. No exaggeration, it turned my freakin’ stomach.

Tuesday afternoon, I was driving home from my job in Norwalk on 95. Now, I’m sure most of you are at least vaguely familiar with the infamous I-95, but for those of you who aren’t, let me just tell you, having to drive this fucker every day is one of the most painful experiences you could possibly imagine. Thank God I’m moving to Milford soon, because I’m already spending upwards of three hours a day driving.

Since 95 moves slower than the Olsen twins at a buffet line, you often get a good view of your commuting neighbors in the lane next to you. So while driving on this gorgeous Tuesday afternoon, listening to a little Billy Joel to unwind the nerves after work, I see coming up on my right, in the middle lane, a white Mitsubishi convertible with the top down being driven by a 20-something blonde tart with a pair of Oakley’s. Now, as if this wasn’t enough to make my blood boil, the capper to it all is the fact that she’s got a Chihuahua perched immediately behind her, looking over the side of the door at this Red Sea of cars that just doesn’t want to seem to part.

A Chihuahua.

It was at this point that the windows in my car rolled down, the volume on the stereo went up, and “Captain Jack” changed without warning to “5 Minutes Alone” by Pantera. Appropriate song, since I would’ve loved 5 minutes alone with this petite princess to chew her out.

Now, before you condemn me for jumping to conclusions and labeling this li’l missy a prissy little Paris rip-off with a ginormous bitch switch, let me tell you something, my friend…

Yesterday (Friday), while driving to work… not from, to… I just happened across the same Mitsubishi convertible, unrecognizable at first since the top was up. But lo and behold, who should be behind the wheel but Princess. And still at the upholstered perch was precious little Chi-Chi, her oversized rodent of a status symbo—I mean dog looking out the window at the slow-moving line of cars.

Windows down, “Say Hello 2 Heaven” by Temple Of The Dog switches to “Stronger Than Death” by Black Label Society.

Why the overload of metal music on my behalf? Because this young lady obviously needs a very loud wake-up call, and what better way to offer that up than in the form of heavy riffs, rapid-fire solos and a blood-curdling vocal? She needs to be exposed to another side of life: the side slightly less ugly than either the lifestyle she promotes or the rhinoplasty she got for her Sweet 16. The side of life most of us (I should hope) dwell in. Cold, hard reality. The type that's not pretty in pink or even feasible in fusca. The type of life that has problems, conflicts, compromises, and stresses that go beyond your favorite tanning salon shutting down.

You have to look at it this way: on Tuesday, it’s quite possible she was coming home from a friend’s house or a party or something else. However, if she’s driving 95 at 8:00 in the AM, there’s a 99% chance she’s going to a job of some sort.

Now, whatever this young kitten does for money (insert prostitution pun here), whatever her line of work is, you have to ask yourself… why the hell is she bringing a Chihuahua to work?! Even if she’s a veterinarian, what’s she doing, bringing her work home with her? I’m sorry, that doesn’t jibe.

So that’s why I opted for such a heavy musical selection. This kid needs a major reattachment to good sound terra firma.

Look, she may be the nicest kid on earth, but I take issue with anyone that carries around a Chihuahua these days. Paris and Britney have turned these poor, once-ridiculed and fast food-exploited canines and turned them into representatives of their ritzy roots. No, folks… odds are this estrogen-infused humanoid is no vet. More likely she works at Abercrombie & Fitch in the Danbury Fair Mall while living off of mummy and daddy’s trust fund and the hard-scrubbing hands of their Mexican houseboy.

Look, I’m an animal lover. Especially dogs. I want one eventually, but have held off for a long time because at this time in my life, I don’t have the time to devote to properly caring for one. I’m not one to dive headfirst into responsibility if I know that I can’t live up to the commitment. So when some tarnished little princess struts around with Chihuahua in hand (or purse, as I’ve seen from time to time), basically flaunting her bankbook and fashionable duds and digs, my iPod turns iRate, and so do I.

People wonder why I’m so down on American society from the upper echelon right down to the mere mortals, and it’s shit like this that fortifies my mindset. When you use another carbon-based life form, be it a dog or a child (soccer moms, I’m looking your way… get out of the Suburban and stop snorting Astroturf) to say something about yourself, I consider you an enemy of the state of Rick, and you’re susceptible to the possibility of capital punishment in the form of a good tongue-lashing on ye olde Landshark blog. And the only reason my sentences never get past that is because U.S. law conflicts with Rick’s law, and neither are in sync with Murphy’s law. I won’t even begin to get into Carlito’s way, either.

And I’m being serious when I say this: I really think the ASPCA should hunt these people down and charge them with animal abuse. Because these little girls are not dog lovers. How can you call yourself a dog lover when you’re clearly too in love with yourself? I’m willing to bet that while these girls are doting as all hell, they’re still not providing these poor critters with the TLC that they so richly deserve. And as if that isn’t criminal enough, they parade the damn thing around like a new belly button piercing or ankle tattoo. Not that I have anything against piercings or tattoos, but I’d much rather they have some kind of relevance to the proud owner, and the same goes for pets. If you’re going to own a dog, own it because you love it, not because it’s the trendy thing to do.

So unless you want me to tie you into a straightjacket, tape your eyelids open and Clockwork Orange you into watching House Of Wax uninterrupted for a fortnight, either give your Chihuahua to someone who actually gives a damn or ship him to Tijuana.

And for fuck’s sake, don’t let a dog that weighs less than four pounds lean out the side of your convertible on I-95 you stupid, stupid slag!

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.