Cry Me a Fucking River, Will Ya?

Disclaimer: I freely admit that I am no judge of poetry. My favorite poets are Dr. Seuss and Bilbo Baggins. Therefore, I am not passing judgment on Amber's poetry. Thus ends the disclaimer. Back to the your regularly scheduled bloodletting review:

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After receiving this blog assignment, I found myself pondering this question: Why do we blog?

Some Possible Answers:

A. To better ourselves or our fellowman
B. To present news, comedy or address social issues
C. To generate income via ads or porn
D. To find an outlet for the sucking pit of our own self-absorption


If the correct answer is "D", then Gould Mourn is the quicker-picker-upper of them all.

Exhibit A:
An IBM Selectric could pound out a better template.

Meet Amber, serial review seeker and the author of this mournful site. It involves a template which doesn't even try to be interesting. No problem, because even the best template couldn't offset this dismal content. Her photography tries to be cutting edge and just comes off as creepy, for the most part. I did, however, like this photo.

Amber forces us to use a monthly calendar, rather than archives, to dig into her site. Funny, I didn't think that there was anything that I would hate as much as archives which dribble down the sidebar for miles. There you have it. I hate the calendars even more. Random hits on this navigational nightmare brought up gloomy posts, poetry, twenty freaking pages of twitter transcripts and some fairly horrible photos.

Exhibit B:
I twitter, therefore I am...pathetic.

If depression is your thing, then this blog's for you. Now, don't get me wrong, a little depression can be interesting to read about, but this writer kills my interest level by just being a whiny-ass baby about everything.

Exhibit C:
Now, act depressed. That's perfect, hold that look.

Amber, sweetheart, if your life sucks so badly, do something about it. Get off the fucking computer and go play outside. Take some Vitamin D for God's sake. Coming to us for a review will not help your depression, in fact, I'm pretty sure that it will just make it worse. See a doctor. Seriously. Depression is like cancer that eats away at your soul. Get some help.

I think that the premise of us following you through your thirtieth year might be interesting, that is, if your life wasn't one big ass suck. Folks, this is teenage angst in the body of a thirty-year old woman. She's an emo-wannabe, poem-writing crybaby, who just refuses to grow up. She needs to stop pretending that a twenty-year depression is actually a career path to becoming a poet.

I don't want to twitter with you or view your myspace. I don't wanna see your facebook, youtube or click ya' flicka'. I won't be joining the others who mainline your despondency. If I want to get sucked into a depression, I'll just call my bitch of a mother-in-law.

Pull your head out of your navel and get a fucking life. Twitter won't help you crawl out of your problems, but Prozac might.


Here are your ratings:

for the look and feel of your site

&



for dumping some major downers on the Mutha.