Ramblings of a Murine Soul
The longer I stray from LJ, the more tempted I am upon returning to write that This Is What I Really Think post. You know, the one where I finally say, “If I see Mediocre Story X rec’ced one more time I’m going to gouge out my own eyes and use ‘em as marbles,” and, in the great tradition of Flannery O’Connor, “X might’ve been a good woman if there’d been someone there to shoot her every minute of her life.” But then I go all Canadian and seal my yap shut ‘cos in the end supercilious bitchery went out with Marie Antoinette. It’s so pre-Revolutionary, yo.
In other news, I had an uber-geek mindgasm when I discovered, after years of irrational longing for it, that English does in fact contain an adjective to describe things mousy: murine. Why I lusted after such an adjective is one for the Cool Cat in the sky, but there you have it: during a Scrabble-playing scan of le dictionnaire, there it was, in all its grey, Latinate glory. Actually, my investment in this word might stem from 1) Herbert, the cancer-riddled, doomed (and, given that she was actually female despite her name, perhaps transgendered) rodent whom I once mouse-sat and 2) the Love to Eat Them Mousies Kliban cartoon that never fails to make me laugh.
Not that anyone gives murine ass, but I continue to live in the moist jungles of wild fangirl lust: Smallville, as always, is my show, the show, the one true show of shows, the vibratorial spectacle that always leaves me flushed and nicotine-needy. I’m still not buying the Lex-Lana thing because that girl’s pure brainless catalyst, the stone in the pond, but then there’s no accounting for taste, right? I still maintain her lure’s only in her Clarkian connection-hell, I might do her myself if she kept my motor running with dirty-talk about Clark’s sexual prowess…
I’m still hanging out with Dean and Sam, too, because a girl can’t have too much pretty in her world. Besides, I like Supernatural-I’d even watch it if the boys were uggers (I think) just for early Stephen King mixed with homo-bro-erotic tension.
So, what else? The world continues not to revolve around me, a fact I still lament. For instance, if I were Grand Imperial Poobah-ess of the Universe, Nnenna wouldn’t have been booted from America’s Next Top Model; my students would be a mix of Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, and Geoffrey Chaucer; my Prime Minister would be Jack Layton, and not that dead-eyed, Conservative peckerhead, Stephen Harper; I’d live here; and, of course, I’d have a harem for sexual satisfaction and light housework.
In other news, I had an uber-geek mindgasm when I discovered, after years of irrational longing for it, that English does in fact contain an adjective to describe things mousy: murine. Why I lusted after such an adjective is one for the Cool Cat in the sky, but there you have it: during a Scrabble-playing scan of le dictionnaire, there it was, in all its grey, Latinate glory. Actually, my investment in this word might stem from 1) Herbert, the cancer-riddled, doomed (and, given that she was actually female despite her name, perhaps transgendered) rodent whom I once mouse-sat and 2) the Love to Eat Them Mousies Kliban cartoon that never fails to make me laugh.
Not that anyone gives murine ass, but I continue to live in the moist jungles of wild fangirl lust: Smallville, as always, is my show, the show, the one true show of shows, the vibratorial spectacle that always leaves me flushed and nicotine-needy. I’m still not buying the Lex-Lana thing because that girl’s pure brainless catalyst, the stone in the pond, but then there’s no accounting for taste, right? I still maintain her lure’s only in her Clarkian connection-hell, I might do her myself if she kept my motor running with dirty-talk about Clark’s sexual prowess…
I’m still hanging out with Dean and Sam, too, because a girl can’t have too much pretty in her world. Besides, I like Supernatural-I’d even watch it if the boys were uggers (I think) just for early Stephen King mixed with homo-bro-erotic tension.
So, what else? The world continues not to revolve around me, a fact I still lament. For instance, if I were Grand Imperial Poobah-ess of the Universe, Nnenna wouldn’t have been booted from America’s Next Top Model; my students would be a mix of Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, and Geoffrey Chaucer; my Prime Minister would be Jack Layton, and not that dead-eyed, Conservative peckerhead, Stephen Harper; I’d live here; and, of course, I’d have a harem for sexual satisfaction and light housework.
