Comfortably Dumb
Ok, today I'm feeling feverish. This means that today's post is going to be even more odd than usual. I think. Or it might end up being more blandly conventional. I don't think I can tell the difference in my current state of mind.
Here's an anecdote for you. So there I was, sitting in the computer lab, surfin' the inter-web. Innocently reading lj posts. Checking email. Sitting inobtrusively, serenely in the corner. Suddenly, rashly, foolishly I decided to check Lore Sjolberg's Book of Ratings. BIG. MISTAKE. The sudden humour overload made me start mentally chuckling, then sniggering beneath my breath, then collapsing into barely stifled embarrasing donkey-like heehaws of laughter. The effort of restraining this laughter causes my face to attain a shade of red usual found on the riper specimens of tomato. A strangled hen-like clucking escapes my twisted, purple lips. Eventually, I'm so far gone that I start dribbling. I kid you not. Spit rolling down my chin. By and by, the idea comes to me that I may have wet my pants. I attempt to glance unobtrusively downward to check, but a sudden convulsion of laughter makes me thrash over so that my head is in my lap.
Horrifyingly, someone chose that moment to cross the cubicle barrier, presumably to check if I was still using the computer.
Picture, if you will, the scene: me, clucking, dribbling, red-faced, head straining towards crotch. Thrashing spasms. Dearie dearie me.
Suffice to say, the poor child ran for his or her life.
So now you know. Beware Lore Sjolberg in all his forms.
...
The recent upwelling of political diatribes has filled my heart with chowder. A Spate of Spats, my friends. Lately I've been having so many illusions shattered re: the coolness of my native land, my youth, the world not sucking, personal worth etc., that I can't really establish what opinion I have any more. I can't begin to describe how utterly furious that makes me; now there is nothing to differentiate me from the formless, opinionless masses. In fact, I'm now wondering if there ever was.
See, we'd like to think that we're special. Every one of us. Secretly, we know that we are. And even more secretly we fear that actually we aren't all that special really. I am not, I trust, unique in this aspect. However, my problem is that I can't accept a world in which I'm NOT well-known, in which I HAVEN'T made any sort of difference. Children, if I am not world-famous and fabulously successful by my 35th birthday, I'm doing myself in. Seriously. Moreover, if definite progress towards this goal has not been made by my 25th birthday, I'm going to be bitterly disappointed.
Every day I discover that I have less patience for mundane hindrances than I did the day before.
...
"He said, Is the return to Oz?
The grass is dead, the gold is brown
And the sky has claws.
There's a windup man
Walkin' round and round;
What once was the Emerald City
Is now a crystal town."
Ah, the Scissor Sistors. Jake Shears is so cute.
...
The meals of the day are overused. I decree that everyone must come up with their own names for meals or be harshly punished. Copycats will also be treated severely.
In related news, I'm off to eat my snobbogasski [mid-day meal]. I hope that this was feverish enough for you. If you mention this post to me later, I will deny all knowledge of its existence and/or provenance.
Here's an anecdote for you. So there I was, sitting in the computer lab, surfin' the inter-web. Innocently reading lj posts. Checking email. Sitting inobtrusively, serenely in the corner. Suddenly, rashly, foolishly I decided to check Lore Sjolberg's Book of Ratings. BIG. MISTAKE. The sudden humour overload made me start mentally chuckling, then sniggering beneath my breath, then collapsing into barely stifled embarrasing donkey-like heehaws of laughter. The effort of restraining this laughter causes my face to attain a shade of red usual found on the riper specimens of tomato. A strangled hen-like clucking escapes my twisted, purple lips. Eventually, I'm so far gone that I start dribbling. I kid you not. Spit rolling down my chin. By and by, the idea comes to me that I may have wet my pants. I attempt to glance unobtrusively downward to check, but a sudden convulsion of laughter makes me thrash over so that my head is in my lap.
Horrifyingly, someone chose that moment to cross the cubicle barrier, presumably to check if I was still using the computer.
Picture, if you will, the scene: me, clucking, dribbling, red-faced, head straining towards crotch. Thrashing spasms. Dearie dearie me.
Suffice to say, the poor child ran for his or her life.
So now you know. Beware Lore Sjolberg in all his forms.
...
The recent upwelling of political diatribes has filled my heart with chowder. A Spate of Spats, my friends. Lately I've been having so many illusions shattered re: the coolness of my native land, my youth, the world not sucking, personal worth etc., that I can't really establish what opinion I have any more. I can't begin to describe how utterly furious that makes me; now there is nothing to differentiate me from the formless, opinionless masses. In fact, I'm now wondering if there ever was.
See, we'd like to think that we're special. Every one of us. Secretly, we know that we are. And even more secretly we fear that actually we aren't all that special really. I am not, I trust, unique in this aspect. However, my problem is that I can't accept a world in which I'm NOT well-known, in which I HAVEN'T made any sort of difference. Children, if I am not world-famous and fabulously successful by my 35th birthday, I'm doing myself in. Seriously. Moreover, if definite progress towards this goal has not been made by my 25th birthday, I'm going to be bitterly disappointed.
Every day I discover that I have less patience for mundane hindrances than I did the day before.
...
"He said, Is the return to Oz?
The grass is dead, the gold is brown
And the sky has claws.
There's a windup man
Walkin' round and round;
What once was the Emerald City
Is now a crystal town."
Ah, the Scissor Sistors. Jake Shears is so cute.
...
The meals of the day are overused. I decree that everyone must come up with their own names for meals or be harshly punished. Copycats will also be treated severely.
In related news, I'm off to eat my snobbogasski [mid-day meal]. I hope that this was feverish enough for you. If you mention this post to me later, I will deny all knowledge of its existence and/or provenance.