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the latest waddle:

good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03

elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01

building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19

ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09

my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04

2002-08-22 ... 10:20 a.m.

Updating often makes me want to update more. Conversely, if I don't update for a few days I sort of forget about it altogether. Sort of like sex: getting some is good, but it only makes you want to get more. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe you have sex and make updates in your web journal all nice and regular onetwothreefour, with nary a thought to the politics of frequency.

That frequency thing applies to friends as well. Which is it for you? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? Or out of sight, out of mind? Do you miss people when they're not around? Do you remember her as wittier and with darker eyes than in reality? Or do you think of him less and less the longer he is not right there making you laugh? I like proximity but I also like having friends in faraway places that I can see once in a while and know we won't stop laughing the whole time. It's superconcentrated. I don't think they know me any less well than my friends who see me once a week for beer or those whom I e-mail on a near-daily basis.

(Pardon me while I have a strange interlude) When I said that about "knowing me" my wrists started to light up and I realized that this was in danger of turning into YET ANOTHER garbled transmission about "knowing" the Other and the sad attempt to fill in the gap between the (carefully? haphazardly? constructed) self and the real world. And YEA, WE ARE ALL HEARTILY SICK OF ME OBSESSING OVER THAT, so I'll stop now. Except to link this paper. I don't like how he glosses over the possibility that the entire concept of the self is a false projection based on the interplay between our brains and bodies, but otherwise it is a nice jumping-off place for discussion, and I realize that I am way too cranky sometimes. The end.


Transit Sob Story #1: Working late sucks. However, I have vowed to try and do it one night a week, if only so I can make some headway on certain projects and stop beating myself up about how I don't work hard enough. It sucks, though. Did I already mention that? It sucks because of the falling-apart-ness that so often happens an hour or so after lunch, when I am sick of everything and the dark inviting space under my desk, where the carpet is all fluffy because it is never walked on, starts to look even more dark and inviting. And when you work late, the falling-apart-ness is not just the standard blood sugar crash but also contains this element of despair when you realize that you will be at work for LOTS MORE HOURS. It takes willpower then to not go pawing through office-supply cabinets looking for suitable suicide implements. (Staple remover? No, too puncture wound-y. Liquid Paper? Hmmm, maybe...)

It also sucks because then by the time I leave the trains are all crowded. I had to stand in the dank subway and let three packed cattle-car Tokyo-esque trains pass me by, with the result being that it was really quite late by the time I got home. But LT had cooked for me and picked up my (damn) dry cleaning, because he is a very nice boy, so I guess it could have been worse.

Transit Sob Story #2: Chicago is under water. It rained hard and complicatedly all night long, complete with some of the loudest thunder you ever heard in your life, and brief power outages that screwed up every clock in my house, and currently the sky's mouth is still set in a thin hard line and the sky looks like it is getting good and ready to throw another tantrum and rain for another six hours. This meant that getting to work was just as much, if not more, fun than getting home was yesterday. Apparently the subway tunnels have flooded and all the trains had to be rerouted over the elevated bit, and all the extra train traffic meant that we literally inched around the Loop. Which wouldn't have been so bad, since I had stuff to read: the latest New Yorker and the last 100 pages or so of my biography of Hart Crane (who is turning out to be rather an asshole, and I am not nearly as impressed with the poetry as when I was an impressionable high-school Romantic, so while I am trying to finish this book I keep thinking GOD JUST HURRY UP AND KILL YOURSELF ALREADY). Well, the slow train wouldn't have been so bad except for the guy next to me being so very WEIRD and CHATTY. He was one of those people who felt the need to remark on everything. "Boy, this is some rain," he said. "Do you like Starbucks?" he asked. "I should call the office," he mused. "I'm going to be pretty late." And, practically face-down in my lap as he craned to see out of the rain-streaked El window, "Wow, look how dark the sky is!" Here are some responses I seriously considered making:

1. What the fuck am I supposed to say to inane comments like those?

2. Where the fuck are you from? We do not speak to strangers here.

3. Can't you see I am reading?

At one point (whygodwhy) he even attempted to personalize his blather. "Name's Jim. What's yours?" Arrgggh. Je m'appelle Bite Me.


So many people want me to see Britney Spears get fucked.

---mimi smartypants is vacuum-packed for maximum freshness.


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