Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Get on the Bus, Gus.

While making my last cup of cinnamon apple tea about five minutes ago --

Interruption for breaking news: the weird old woman in the next row of cubes who hates everything and everyone is making sounds like a ticked-off walrus doing lamaze.

-- I had one of those existential moments wherein you realize you are much crazier than the people around you probably perceive. I was pouring hot water from the designated hot water spigot and absent-mindedly looking out the window at the building across the way when I noticed I could see the building's elevator shaft (I know, I know...shaft, teabag. This story will be a disappointment to anyone looking for an exciting climax--I gave you that one on a platter--to some drivel about the mundane machinations of my psyche.) Though I was finished with tea preparation-related activities by this point, I was unable to leave the window until I saw the elevator descend completely out of my field of view.

This happens to me all the time; I'll have to sit in front of a clock until I see the numbers change, or stay in my car each morning until the exact point in the broadcast on Z-100, or watch the TV Guide station until the listings get all the way back around to where I've started. Related, I think, I am compelled to re-order the little marmalades at Denny's (Brad can attest to this) so the grapes are with the grapes and the oranges are with the oranges, as God intended.

Let me just get it out there that I'm not claiming I have obsessive-compulsive disorder or anything (although, if that's enough of an excuse for me to collect some kind of disability check, I've got it bad). Really, I'm just a little nuts. I prefer to believe it adds to my quirky charm, which, in addition to my devastating good looks and razor-sharp intellect, attracts the menfolk like flies to the outhouse.

Last night while I was out with Kai, I realized that I had forgotten the best part of the Hot Dad update of a few days ago. It's so funny I couldn't have written it any better myself. He was talking about his being a drummer and all, and he told me he was trying to learn an especially difficult part of a very particular Paul Simon song. It's pricless. Ready?

Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.

I shit you not.

I'm fresh out of things to say in long, unrelated paragraph form (my very favorite). I promise if I come up with anything worth your while, I'll post it after lunch. Pinky swear.


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