Back to Diaryland

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

2002-10-03 ... 7:46 p.m.


How about some bad analogies? Anyone? Okay, coming right up. I feel like I've been surfing my whole life. Like there's a big wave and I am all on the crest of it, moving along steadily. Which is great. I look all stylish up there, surfing away, and everyone smiles and says hello. The only problem is that lately I think that real life is under the waves. I wonder what it would be like to swim instead of surf, to come face to face with the fact rather than the idea of the octopus, to get my lips all salty and my hair all seaweedy. To be in the middle of all that unthinkable depth. To have it really affect me and have me really affect it.

Never mind. This is starting to feel like some sort of existentialist Spongebob Squarepants episode, what with all the water metaphors and moping. Can someone put a family-sized bucket of serotonin on the shopping list for me? Thanks.

I have a haunting, recurrent mopey daydream: I walk into a room (sometimes in the daydream there is a dry-ice sort of fog, for maximum cinematic effect) and I sit down crosslegged in front of some person who I think can Save Me. (Don't even ask, "From what?" because I know it is a ridiculous notion. TRUST ME, I KNOW.) Sometimes, depending on fatigue level, I instead imagine lying facedown on the floor in front of the Saving Person. Either way, I just remain there, eyes closed, hands open, and wait.

Of course, I also have a recurrent daydream of a singing apple. The apple is in a recording session, up on a stool and wearing tiny headphones, and I'm watching through the sound booth window saying "Yeah baby! Fabulous!" and other producer-type phrases. So maybe we shouldn't try too hard to use my recurrent daydreams as emotional barometers. Especially not singing-fruit-related recurrent daydreams.


Please do not jump strongly, that may bring troubles to the other person.

I always knew that those paper clips were trying to kill me.

Wonderful freaky creatures.

I am at your house. We are drinking wine and there is music on the stereo (GOOD music, okay? Don't put any more of that Celtic crap on while I am around. All those screechy non-developing melody lines sound like the soundtrack to paranoid schizophrenia.) I go to use your bathroom, but I am only in there for a second before I run out screaming "Help! Help! Help!" and I don't even stop to get my coat, and you pull back the blinds to see me running down the street. Here's why.

If I were an American Gladiator (is that show even on anymore? I think not. I think we as a culture have tired of contests of steroidal muscle-bound athleticism and have turned instead to contests of gluttony or contests of disgusting whoredom or contests of sunburned bug-eating. And now I've gotten completely lost in my own parentheses.) Anyway, if I were an American Gladiator, I would want my American Gladiator name to be "Twig." I recall that many of the American Gladiator names were linked to natural phenomena, and certainly I am more of a Twig than a Storm or a Volcano or a Sequoia (a word, incidentally, that I adore because it uses all the vowels).

I have a special fondness for the drawing of "The Ramp" in use. What the hell is that teal-colored urn thing? I don't think I could even have sex in the presence of a teal-colored urn. I'd say, "Honey, you sure are ramming me good. But hang on a second while I hide this creepy-ass urn in the closet. Where did we get this thing anyway? Damn." The wedge-and-ramp (tall) drawing is cute, too, because the dude has his socks on. (Hang on for another sock-related comment, it's mere sentences away!)


I went to the gynecologist today. Did you? My gynecologist has braces and long blonde hair and looks like she's about twelve years old. It's a little disconcerting. They left me alone for too long in the exam room and I almost stole some speculum lube but then thought better of it. Although I consider my $20 co-pay per visit to be rather outrageous, I don't think it gives me the moral right to steal speculum lube. Besides, I have no burning desire to make metal objects slippery. I always leave my socks on* at the gynecologist's. Poke around in my princess all you want, lady, but my feet are private.

(*See? I told you!)


This entry, in a self-referential way! Will take place! In real time! Sort of. Let's put it this way: I was all mopey (and probably will return to my default mopey setting soon enough) but I am currently gleeful, because I just watched this video (requires RealPlayer) about Mr. T and apple-picking and I laughed and laughed and laughed. The transition from mopey to giggling was made within the timeframe of typing this, which I think is significant even if you do not. Even if you never visit any of my links because you are all like "what the hell Mimi you sure dredge up some pointless Internet shit" I implore you to click on this one. Implore. Or maybe I beseech. It's hard to tell.

---mimi smartypants caught a whiff of that crazy Casbah jive.


join my Notify List and get email when I update my site:
Powered by