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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

2003-02-19 ... 9:51 p.m.

Like a smart person, LT is winding down his evening, and is reading The Economist or some other frighteningly boring thing in bed (seriously, The Economist and their incomprehensible captions baffle me---maybe they think they are being funny but it is like the Belgians trying to make a joke or something. It just sits there.) I, on the other hand, am not so smart. Because although I can feel the tiredness seeping higher up my spine through the magic of capillary action (sometimes I like to think of my spine as a piece of celery and fatigue as some blue food coloring), I have just poured another half-glass of the super-purple Beaujolais, and it looks all happy and alcoholic as it sits there on the coaster on this here desk. A glass of super-purple wine like a symbol that stands only for itself, the glass is more than half-full with its own axiomatic meaning. Oh, somebody please stop me. I will just can the Kantian (ha ha! Can the Kant, sister!) thing-in-itself crap for now and say that this Beaujolais in this half-light is REALLY QUITE PURPLE, and if only I had had access to good wine in high school when I was all about the Manic Panic, because honestly this is the color I was going for.

Not that any sort of hair dye, temporary, permanent, or in-between, has EVER worked on my resolutely-brown hair. Maybe my hair is also all Kantian thing-in-itself. My Susan Sontag hair is Against Interpretation, my deconstructionist hair insists that my hair is the only text and cannot be viewed through the lens of hair dye, okay I'll stop now. For real.

There are entirely too many entries in this online journal thing, and sometimes just to make sure I am not repeating myself I have to resort to Googling my own site. How sad is this? But I do it for you. I do it because I do not want you to be sitting at home or at work or in the library, possibly with your own glass of wine or big fat doobie (hey, you know that's not allowed in the library), hitting yourself over the head and yelling, "GOD MIMI YOU COVERED THIS ALREADY." I also don't want you thinking less of me for repeating myself. I am like a calzone of contradictions. There is the cheese of being all "Pshaw, I care not for others' opinions, for if I did I surely would attempt to come off as more likable and less crazy on this web page." But there is also the sauce of "You should like me. You should like me anyway. You send me e-mail, right? And I have been around for a while. You should forgive my foibles and find me intriguing." Wrap that all up in the dough of a certain not-wholly-consistent online persona, which you may or may not have formed a tenuous mental relationship with, and voila: Mimi Calzone. Mmmm.

I already blithered about the real/not real in the last entry, but how painfully (ow) interesting is it that people become real to other people through this medium, which we all like to continually point out is not real but a paraspace, a cyberspace, a consensually hallucinatory space? If I had not started posting these blitherings I wouldn’t even exist in your mind, I would be 100% unreal. Or not even unreal, just...not. I would be not to you. Now, after three years and counting, I am obviously not someone you hold in your mind every day (come on, I am not that vain), but, at least while you are here reading this, I am "someone." When I was little I used to believe that when the refrigerator kicked on it meant that all the food came alive.* I pictured the light inside switching on and all the produce and eggs and such cavorting around, having a big old refrigerator party, and then when the cycle clicked off again all was silent and dark. Um. If it were not for the wine and the capillary action I would have spun that into a really neat metaphor about online personas and the real vs. the imaginary. I think you probably understand.

(*Confession: I still kind of think this.)

Anyway, the reason I started talking about how I don't want to repeat myself is that I cannot remember if I have ever talked about my precognitive dreams. I need a concordance or an index to this thing already. I have precognitive dreams. All the time. And it is never anything useful like lottery numbers or "don't-get-on-that-plane" dreams, it is usually some weird minor, mundane, and spatial thing, like "I sat right here and said this" and "he stood over there and said that." I write most of my dreams down in excruciating detail, so whenever I have déjà vu I am able to go back to the hard drive and say Aha, this really did happen already. In a dream. Sometimes the dream turns out a bit differently; for instance, in DC at my board meeting I was sitting in that conference room and I thought Oh man I have dreamed this exact meeting before, like EXACTLY, only in the dream, just about now, something horrible happened to us, the wall imploded or something and death and disaster reigned. Well, nothing like that happened. But one of the board members did get a call on her cell phone right then about the space shuttle Columbia. So. Death and disaster. And precognitive dreams. Burn me as a witch! Or revere me as some sort of X-Files freaky mutant! Your choice! Plus bacon or sausage, and free refills on coffee!


Hmmm, let me see: NO. But thank you for playing, and it is weirdly exciting that you are speculating about my reproductive organs. Really.


This guy's dogs ate his penis after he died. Man's best friend.

This guy took office supply bondage too far.

Inhaling sardine eyeballs can kill you.

For god's sake, be careful with that shoehorn in your ass. Yes, I am talking to you, don't try to look all innocent.

Why, that's fairly gruesome!

And then there are people who really are too stupid to live.

---mimi smartypants is the real tough cookie with the long history.


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