I feel special. The Infected Papercut (which used to be Don't Screw With Me, but hey, I keep up with the times; I'm hep to the beat) linked me after March 2nd's post about Sierra Mist. She even used the term "pure nirvana" to describe the statement. I'm glad I'm not the only one whose life that discovery changed.

All this nirvana talk, of course, brings me straight back to seventh grade. Even at the tender age of 12, I had no freaking clue what I wanted as a career. My default response became "the Dalai Lama." I still don't think that would be too bad a job.

Not the segue you expected, was it? Look at me all not-referencing Bleach or the video for "Heart-shaped Box" or something.

My neurons are firing faster than ever lately. As soon as I typed the word "Dalai," my brain started playing: "If you can find an Afghan rebel that the Moscow bullets missed, ask him what he thinks of voting Communist. Or ask the Dalai Lama in the hills of Tibet, 'How many monks did the Chinese get?'" (For the curious, download "Washington Bullets" by the Clash. The Sandinistan rebellion has never sounded so catchy.)

On a completely, totally, absolutely unrelated note, I'd like to say something very, very important. Namely, I think it's weird that Sting managed to create an entire generation and a half that hears any reference to Lolita and immediately thinks, "Just like the/old man in/that book by Nabokov." (I'm assuming that I'm not the only one who does that.)

Now I've got to go download "Money for Nothin'." Neurons, have mercy.