Dummy
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.
Though:
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?
Though:
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?
posted by Kathy at 11:21 AM
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