Review Summary: I don't know what's going on! What counts as a "short" paragraph. Conclusions can be made about the possibility of the existence of Ghandi. Rabid Werewolf pedophile, or political activist? I don't know, I don't think I am in the position to make that judg
I exist secondarily to my right pinky toenail. Without my right pinky toenail I would completely cease to exist. And now, because I have revealed a weakness to what I perceive to be all of the people in the world, I must get rid of it. And cease to exist...But since I am unsure of my toenail's existence, I might not be able to get rid of it, because it doesn't really exist.
But since the toenail is a condition for my own existence, if it doesn't exist, then I don't really exist, and I can't really type this thing that I'm typing now. But I did type it, or at least I think I typed it. I mean I THINK I think I typed it, but I can't be sure, it is entirely possible that this text isn't really here, but rather it is a strip mall. With a pizza place, a grocery store, and a pot-slinging chinese restaurant with two identical coffee shops facing each other. Inside the internet. This seems alot like the area which the store I perceive to be employed at occupies. Since the store which I perceive that I am employed at is in the space that I think I am typing, then I am really just working, but I don't think I am working, I think I am at home, in my roommate's chair typing this review about some Country album that my boredom conjured out of nowhere. But was I really bored? Boredom implies lack of things to do, this review is something to do. If I had this to do why was I bored? Does my boredom mean that I'm not really typing this, because if that is the----
case then why do I think I'm bored, why am I reviewing this album. I don't think I'm reviewing this album, but the text at the top of my screen is saying that I am. Or at least that the screen is reviewing it. But that has nothing to do with anything, because I don't think that's possible. Of course I could be mistaken, I could actually be the screen and I'm simply looking at a mirror. A broken mirror in which I see words flashing across my funny square-face. Maybe you know what's really going on---you...I don't know who I'm talking to, the problem shows itself again. For some reason I thought I was addressing someone other than myself, but as far as I know I am all by myself. But that might be what they want me to think. But who are they? Am I just a slice of cheese in a room typing on a computer with a hamburger watching me? I'll leave that up to Dr. James Pepper. Is James his real name? Is he really a doctor? Or even a 'he'? I maintain my disbelief that he is nothing more than liquidated korn....