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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

2002-06-19 ... 8:41 a.m.

Staplers! Staplers are great.

Jesus will crush you!

Kids' cross-sections. (Cross-sections of things that kids drew. Not cross-sections of actual kids.)

To capitalize on the glut of business books and management seminars that is such a thriving and insipid industry in this country, I've decided to work with Hunter S. Thompson to develop a management seminar that we can take to hotel ballrooms and corporate training centers across America. Actually, I don't really need his help, just his name and endorsement. We'll call it "Loathing, Fear, and Effective Leadership" or "It Never Gets Weird Enough When You're CEO" or some other, catchier title. And I will give an inspirational speech on how to do an employee performance evaluation when you’re sweating on mescaline, how to handle it when big orange spiders are crawling out of the copier, the stress-relieving benefits of keeping a bottle of Cuervo in your bottom desk drawer, and how to motivate employees by threatening them with large handguns. The seminar will run from 9 am to 11:30 am, and then we'll break for "coffee," and then the seizure-inducing lights will start oscillating and the walls will close in and melt. Bathrooms are in the back if you need to get away, but please make sure you're back in time for our role-playing game.

A referral I love: online journals goddammed. Also: mimi please fuck me, which can't possibly be directed at me, but I do appreciate the politeness. If it was just "mimi fuck me" I'd have to say, "What's the magic word?"

Don't you hate those days when some really cool thought is drifting around in the front of your brain, behind the eyes, and it's unlike anything you (or maybe anyone) have thought before? You desperately want to think the thought properly but it refuses to condense into anything useful. That happened to me this morning, on the El, when we were stopped for no reason and I found myself gazing at the Argyle stop's directional sign (a red rectangle with a big white "A") and thinking powerfully interesting but ultimately vaporous thoughts about consciousness and our awareness of death and how intimately these things are linked to signage, nomenclature, the naming of things. But because I am having one of those untranslatable days I can't describe what I was really thinking, so you'll just have to take my word for it, and thus we are no better off than when we started. Isn't communication grand? You just pour and pour and hope that something leaks through.

Composition, even half-assed and online, is ever so much easier than speaking. I am terrible at saying things. I have never been able to talk dirty in bed, to find words at a funeral, or to make chitchat with total strangers (without the benefit of champagne and an expansive manic mood). And desire is the most difficult thing of all to voice: how are we ever able to say, "I wish this would last forever" or "I want the Caesar salad" or "Could you come here please and hold my hand?" Even asking the bartender for the "just one more" beer reveals a naked note of wishing. A longing for sensation. An attempt to stretch something interesting, something more than just me locked in my brain, past evening, into night, and onward to pale sickly morning.

This marks the second night in a row that I have been awakened out of a deep sleep by exquisitely painful leg cramps. It is totally startling and totally bizarre, at 2:30 this morning I am sitting up in bed trying not to scream or whimper too loudly and wake up LT, flexing my foot and pounding on my knotted-up calf. I read in one of my numerous medical reference books that nighttime leg cramps can be a sign of a mineral deficiency, so if you'll excuse me I'm going to go outside and lick some rocks now.

---mimi smartypants slashed the Mayor's tires with a pocketknife.


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