Welcome to Thunderdome, bitch!
THE RED SOX ARE CHAMPIONS OF BASEBALL!!! And have become the first team to win two world championships in this century...of course they did that at the beginning of the LAST century. I'll probably be dead before any sizable drought sets back in, so, celebrate we will.
"There is no way a beautiful woman can live up to what she looks like for any appreciable length of time."
The moral at the end of that story is this" "Men are jerks. Women are psychotic."
-Kilgore Trout
"Do human beings ever realize life while they live it? --every, every, minute?"
I myself become a sort of Emily every time I hear that speech. I haven't died yet, but there is a place, as seemingly safe and simple, as learnable, as acceptable as Grover's Corners at the turn of the century, with ticking clocks and Mama and Papa and hot baths and new-ironed clothes and all the rest of it, to which I've already said good-by, good-by, one hell of a long time ago now.
-Kurt Vonnegut
A friend of a friend and I recently had a bit of a correspondence going over the past few weeks regarding what has become quite the distressing situation for yours truly. I tried quite frantically to convey the sort of emotions I was experiencing, nothing new to her I'm sure, but I'm a complainer by nature, that's just how I roll. This friend of a friend spoke of perspective, and these feelings being something of limbo, advancing upon my addled brain such a concept as emotional purgatory.
Well she was wrong, I've spent the entire day in Omaha, Nebraska, and by proxy it's sister city Council Bluffs, Iowa. I am in purgatory now, I say that with absolute certainty, my phone has not rung, I have not had an interesting thought, nor have I seen nor heard anything interesting for my entire time here. I ate at Red Lobster, they played the most horrible music I have ever been subjected to short of something by Chromeo or Church Rock. When my chicken and beer and rice were brought out to me I fantasized about their having been a mishap in the kitchen, where they would have cross-contaminated my food with shrimp--the waitress, Liza, was nice enough to explain to me that it was all you can eat shrimp month, so the elements of death and hell are present here in purgatory, as I am decidedly allergic--my convulsions and blisters would have made for some high tension, and comedy, and at least a bitter anecdote to take home with me from Omaha. No such luck, just a generic meal, where I listened to two portly mid-western girls prattle on about how to be more out-going towards men, taking time too to show no mercy towards the caravan of shrimp whose terminus was their ample bellies. They regaled one another with jokes to such an extent that their chuckles resounded throughout the mostly empty dining area with a delightful smoker's hack that would have been just as at home coming from the lungs of a 75 year old Arabian Monkey trader who had smoked hash all his life.
Currently I am watching something on television which I am too listless to pay attention to, waiting to do some wonderful night-work, my contact in lovely Omaha is an old man who wears Velcro shoes older than those heifers who were committing shrimp genocide in the aforementioned Red Lobster. My friend of a friend was wrong, there are no emotions in Purgatory, just floating, and the sweet siren-song that is death by endless shrimp. L-I-V-I-N!
"There is no way a beautiful woman can live up to what she looks like for any appreciable length of time."
The moral at the end of that story is this" "Men are jerks. Women are psychotic."
-Kilgore Trout
"Do human beings ever realize life while they live it? --every, every, minute?"
I myself become a sort of Emily every time I hear that speech. I haven't died yet, but there is a place, as seemingly safe and simple, as learnable, as acceptable as Grover's Corners at the turn of the century, with ticking clocks and Mama and Papa and hot baths and new-ironed clothes and all the rest of it, to which I've already said good-by, good-by, one hell of a long time ago now.
-Kurt Vonnegut
A friend of a friend and I recently had a bit of a correspondence going over the past few weeks regarding what has become quite the distressing situation for yours truly. I tried quite frantically to convey the sort of emotions I was experiencing, nothing new to her I'm sure, but I'm a complainer by nature, that's just how I roll. This friend of a friend spoke of perspective, and these feelings being something of limbo, advancing upon my addled brain such a concept as emotional purgatory.
Well she was wrong, I've spent the entire day in Omaha, Nebraska, and by proxy it's sister city Council Bluffs, Iowa. I am in purgatory now, I say that with absolute certainty, my phone has not rung, I have not had an interesting thought, nor have I seen nor heard anything interesting for my entire time here. I ate at Red Lobster, they played the most horrible music I have ever been subjected to short of something by Chromeo or Church Rock. When my chicken and beer and rice were brought out to me I fantasized about their having been a mishap in the kitchen, where they would have cross-contaminated my food with shrimp--the waitress, Liza, was nice enough to explain to me that it was all you can eat shrimp month, so the elements of death and hell are present here in purgatory, as I am decidedly allergic--my convulsions and blisters would have made for some high tension, and comedy, and at least a bitter anecdote to take home with me from Omaha. No such luck, just a generic meal, where I listened to two portly mid-western girls prattle on about how to be more out-going towards men, taking time too to show no mercy towards the caravan of shrimp whose terminus was their ample bellies. They regaled one another with jokes to such an extent that their chuckles resounded throughout the mostly empty dining area with a delightful smoker's hack that would have been just as at home coming from the lungs of a 75 year old Arabian Monkey trader who had smoked hash all his life.
Currently I am watching something on television which I am too listless to pay attention to, waiting to do some wonderful night-work, my contact in lovely Omaha is an old man who wears Velcro shoes older than those heifers who were committing shrimp genocide in the aforementioned Red Lobster. My friend of a friend was wrong, there are no emotions in Purgatory, just floating, and the sweet siren-song that is death by endless shrimp. L-I-V-I-N!
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