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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

2002-12-19 ... 6:00 a.m.

DREAM (recorded for posterity, and maybe so you can get a few fun surreal images to weave into your own dreams):

I am at a party and similar to the Pixies faux-lip-synching video for "Here Comes Your Man," everyone just opens his or her mouth and holds it open and words sort of miraculously come out. Eventually the party winds down and only me and T. are left so we go up to the attic. (It is a totally classic children's-book attic, with a rocking chair and a braided rag rug on the floor.) We are lying on the rug on our stomachs playing Samuel Beckett: The Board Game. You have to maneuver a little Molloy or Estragon through forests of empty signifiers or something like that. The game has dice inside one of those pop-up plastic thing, like it is meant for kids who are too dumb to be trusted not to lose or choke on dice. We are trying to play quietly so as not to wake the house up (the house itself is asleep, we can hear it breathing). The game ends in a tie. Samuel Beckett: The Board Game always ends in a tie. Later I am leaving the house and tacked to every tree is a note that says "CONFIDENTIAL." There is also something in the dream about a digital tuba, and a part where I explain to my coworkers that my plan for the weekend is to take a lot of shrooms and go hang-gliding, which they think is a capital idea.


(let us all agree to pretend we are traveling through the same time-sphere)

Today, although I am sleep-deprived (seriously, I don't know where I found the time to dream even the above puny dream because I was asleep for all of three hours), and although Chicago is suffering under a blanket of GloomWeather (dark and stormy…afternoon), I am much happier than yesterday. I am torn about whether I even want to write about yesterday or just let the memory of yesterday die like a theatrically pale tubercular Dostoevsky heroine. Oh which one will I choose? I think we already know the answer. But I will be brief. Some of the bloody sputum that yesterday coughed up into its handkerchief (aha! you thought I had forgotten all about that analogy!) included the following:

The holiday horrors (in all its subcategories: Shopping Horror, the All-Christmas-Music Radio Station Horror, and the Horror Of The Scary Woman On The Twelfth Floor Of This Office Who Seems To Own Simply Assloads Of Santa-Themed Clothing);

A conference call that was completely unnecessary for me to be on, which seemed to take an eternity, and where I actually heard someone say: "the purpose of this meeting is to inform you of some information, and I think you will find this very informative";

And an abusive phone call from some pharmaceutical public-relations guy who tried to bully me into giving him embargoed information and yelled at me for a while about how ridiculous the policy is, a policy I did not invent. He even did the "and who do you report to?" crap, the last refuge of an angry little man.

And then, as if yesterday did not suck enough donkey cock, I was dragged to yet another meeting and while I am sitting there dreaming of a martini the size of Lake Ontario I look over at the dry-erase board to my left and it says:

Headache/stomachache/itchy/neck pain
No sleep/drink too much/argue/tired

Blah. Lists of depressing loaded words in green dry-erase marker was not what I needed to see right then.


a. cellular-level revulsion at how utterly tacky one's surroundings are, as in certain Florida motel rooms

b. when you find out someone you know is Canadian and they never told you

c. when it is really cold and you really have to pee, and you finally get inside and pee, and the feeling of the warm pee leaving you is so wonderful that you get a little freaked out and wonder if you could ever be into watersports after all, even though you refused to pee on that guy that one time

d. seeing a photo of yourself and not recognizing it right away

e. seeing a photo of your ex, who recently achieved some fame as a Naked Skateboarder, catching big air on the cover of a skate magazine

f. that sharp bitter stab of irrational anger when your dining companion orders the exact same thing as you

g. turning down invitations to go out and then feeling lonely on a Saturday night, even though it's your own damn fault and even though you still could go out, there is plenty of time

h. waking up from a sexual dream about a particular Muppet and then masturbating, not thinking about the Muppet exactly but still being aware that you are taking physiological advantage of a pretty strange situation


Secrets of the Strad (it's all about the varnish).


This morning's strange Google referral: suck my testicles baby. We are in fact approaching the Christmas season---is that the popular new doll this year? Suck My Testicles Baby! New from Mattel! She wets, she cries, she sucks your testicles!

The thought of a corporation owning the moon makes me pretty queasy.

Yay. Virginia. Girlfriend knows her colors. Speak on it, sister.

The pork logo and the GlaxoSmithKline logo are almost exactly the same. IS THAT EERIE OR WHAT? Pork as pharmaceutical: Porkanil? Porkivir? Baconase? Loinox? Hamvent? However, you would have to change all the names to be able to market in Saudi Arabia, and that is always a pain.

---mimi smartypants sells seashells by the seashore.


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