Wednesday, December 01, 2004


It's December, it's pouring, and my favorite Mormon finally broke his winning streak on Jeopardy. My CD is skipping. My tea is cold. I'm wearing an itchy sweater, I didn't wash my hair today, and the Killers are on The OC this week. The Preservationist by David Maine was a waste of six hours. I've spent the morning re-typing figure legends from the corrupted computer files for Biomedical Informatics: Computer Applications in Health Care, Third Edition. I took the C instead of the 6 today, which is a thoroughly depressing train. I've rejoined the Church of Low Carbosity. I blew through my last paycheck like a hipster with a rolled-up dollar, and I have not received a single e-mail today.


Brad may be a model. I have one of the Murakami novels I've yet to read in my bag right now. I sent a care package yesterday. There is a good deal of gas in my car. It is nearly lunch, the Rockefeller Center tree is lit, and the two-month-old gourds on my desk have miraculously not gone bad. Dr. Butman's manuscript is no longer in my possession, and I have a new, fashionably winter-white parka with a zipper that works. I have tickets to see Tarnation on Friday at the Jacob Burns Film Center and I have the opportunity to chat up Mr. Caouette afterwards, provided his last name hasn't used up the evening's supply of vowels.

I suppose, in actuality, the cosmic scales are balanced.

But indulge my whiney thirteen-year-old for a second: couldn't I just be a rock star? How about if I say please? If not a rock star, I still maintain that I'd take a Bijou Phillips-y job any day; there's nothing better than being a B-list celebrity due to your frequent proximity to the fame of others. In my universe, it is brutally unfair that I will spend the next fifteen minutes trying to figure out whether "waveforma" is a highly technical medical term I've never heard of or just "waveforms" with a typo, while in all likelihood Paris Hilton will spend the next fifteen minutes dropping more money on a tank top than I'll make in a month, filming her own naked ass banging a hot guy, and then going to work on her album.

Mostly, I just want my life to involve more drinking, music, and excellent clothing, and not as much MetroNorth, Microsoft Outlook, and German-database-wrangling. There's gotta be a way to swing that without becoming an alcoholic shoplifter on COPS. More realistically, I think I just need to distract my inner-seventh-grader with the glitter lipgloss in my bag so 22-year-old me will realize that today (and this job, my life, the world) is not so miserable.

Kai just informed me she has to go to the ribbon-cutting ceremony for her nursing program's new dummy. News 12 "may or may not be there." This has raised a number of questions:

1. Where is the ribbon tied?
2. Is this an umbilical metaphor? Should this be taken philosophically?
3. Is this truly "breaking news"?
4. Am I obligated to commit a few acts of arson to liven up the 6:00 show?


Post a Comment

<< Home

Site Meter Blogarama - The Blog Directory