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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

2002-08-06 ... 9:19 p.m.


1. I once read somewhere (you'll get no detailed footnotes or bibliographic citations from me, today) that blind people tend not to be smokers. Something about the spark of the lighter or match, and watching your smoke curl around and form strange animals up by the ceiling, is a purely visual pleasure. When I smoked, I always preferred matches for the noise and for the intimacy: the way you have to hold it so gently by the tip, the delicate wrist tilts required to bring the match to your lips. Holding a lighter is holding technology, but holding a match is holding fire.

2. When I was six years old and toasting marshmallows in someone's backyard, one of my marshmallows caught on fire and as I vigorously shook the stick to put out the flame the burning glob of marshmallow goo flung itself off and stuck to my arm like napalm. Worst burn I ever received. No scars though.

3. When that house on my block caught fire, it was kind of scary but kind of compelling too.

4. Similarly, is there a cooler movie stunt than a guy on fire? No, I don't think there is.

5. I set my watch on fire once. I had it on the stove for some reason and the watch got too close to the burner and went up in flames. My back was turned and so the small conflagration really took me by surprise, and I yelled, "Ahhh! Fire!" like a wuss, which caused LT to come running out of the shower, totally naked, scooping up the fire extinguisher on the way, and then give me a withering look when he saw the little two-inch-high pile of flaming Timex. He put it out with a dishtowel and went to go finish his shower.

6. Years ago, at Exit, I poured candle wax in a total stranger's mouth because he asked me to. It may have been a sexual thing for him but it certainly wasn't for me. I was just curious and he seemed to really want someone to do it.

7. Are you on fire? I think you are. It's okay though, so am I.


Why, that would be the squirrel snacking on the roadkill squirrel on Sacramento Avenue. So now we can add "cannibalistic" to the list of Squirrel Attributes, along with "filthy" and "evil."


Web referral that found me: Sexy club for women fucked by big duck. How big a duck are we talking here? Remember, Mr. Duck, it's not the size, it's what you do with it. Mr. Duck. Sir.


His name was Willie and he flirted with me by throwing a whiffle ball bat at my head. He wore glasses and so did I and he could draw really good monsters and robots. We progressed to tongues fairly quickly, every day during recess, until we got caught and the teacher called my mother, who didn't much care, and his mother, who did. I think Willie ended up going to private school and doing a lot of drugs.


I don't think my life could get any stupider. (a) My work computer has died for the second time in less than a week. The IT department is going to come get it "sometime tomorrow" for a second rebuild. Thus, all day I will probably be without a computer. Part of me really wants to throw a huge hissy fit and demand an entirely new computer, which kind of makes sense when you consider the lost time and the amount of money work will pay me to more or less do nothing tomorrow. But the other part of me is shy about throwing huge hissy fits about things. Especially in front of sad geeky network IT guys who are probably teetering on the brink of losing their jobs anyway. (b) It looks like I am going to have to hire a bloodsucking leech of a lawyer in order to straighten out the whole identity-theft mess. (c) Hiring a lawyer is just about the last thing I wanted to spend money on after this summer full of unforseen expenses and mandatory bar tabs. (See, when my life gets complicated and my husband has to spend a lot of time in his office muttering darkly at recalcitrant code [and, of course, it's not his fault he has a successful business], that just means that I need to spend a lot of time in bars complaining to my friends and plotting devious art projects. And I'm a good tipper. Work is the curse of the drinking class. (d) Anxiety is starting to creep back. There are bad dreams. (Last night I woke myself up saying nonononononono like a broken, extremely negative, record.) There is a constant dark beating of wings in my head. There is the feeling that I am somehow irrevocably Fucking Up. There is the feeling that it is only a matter of time before everyone, from closest friend to most distant colleague, whirls around with forefinger extended to say Ha. You are a fraud, we knew it all along, and we'll just get back to our regularly scheduled lives now.

Oh, I'm such a drip sometimes. Maybe the embarrassment of posting this mopey babyish list will teach me a lesson, all neatly summed up like this: Don't have two beers and read a mopey contemporary novel about the impossibility of love and human communication while listening to Throwing Muses.

However, today I did cheer myself up slightly by designing this bumper sticker online.

---mimi smartypants fits in your pocket.


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