What blogs do is acknowledge that people, by and large, are perverts. Or conversely, that they're not. . . depending, of course, on what a pervert is. Is a pervert someone who is interested in other people? If so, you're all perverts and I appreciate your perversion. If a pervert is someone who is interested only in themself, well. . . then I guess neither of us are perverts.
I think you're perverts though.
Anyway, I was recently discoursing on the nature of boll weevils when a coworker said to me, "uh, thank you, Eli Whitney." She then looked around for appreciation from our live studio audience, but saw only books. Still, it was a little bit of a zinger and also a great advertising slogan for the
National Cotton Council of America. I can already picture dozens of 100% cotton t-shirts emblazoned with that simple testament to Whitney's invention. Then I picked an aphid off her (my coworker's) sleeve and she asked me if it was actually a weevil, but I told her it wasn't.
I'm not an environmentalist, but mass market paperbacks make me sick inside.
Today, I was thinking about writing a story that began at the beginning. I think this is it though, and I don't know how it goes from here.
Feature I most wish Gmail would add: a button that logs you out of your email on all desktops where you may be logged in. Another: Different signature lines for every address associated with the account.
I would only want to stand on a brick platform if a way could be found to water polish the entire thing so that it was utterly smooth. I hate to catch my finger and toe nails on bricks. I'd like to stand on a brick platform like that. I really like bricks.
Another great t-shirt slogan: I learned to hate myself again at Printer's Row Book Fair 2008. I'd like to see more black t-shirts with black printing. Also, in fashion news, why are there not black oxford cloth shirts made? Fashionistas, I demand answers!
HomeMade Pizza Co., like all take-and-bake establishments, is an unconscionable travesty of a pizzeria.
Root beer floats, eh?
I wish Jessica would prick me with pins more often, but never when I am not expecting it.
What can I do well? Almost nothing.
What can I do poorly? Many things.
What shall I do with this information? Everything.
Governing forces: impulse, fear, and maybe also love. Where do these come from, anyway?
Why are my dreams so fleeting? I'm certain that I have the same dreams over and over again, but I can never quite remember them when I awaken. Just the Indian man with the living glass full of urine and something in black and white. Everything, maybe.
Idea for a play:
Bill's Dream in another dimension. Present the play in an operating theatre so that the audience looks down on Bill writhing in bed while the commentators comment. Have PA system play Bill's thoughts (prerecorded). I'd like to see more plays presented in operating theatres.
I think of my body as a carcass when I am naked and as a machine when I'm clothed. It works.
When I look at people I know, I frequently think about their likes and dislikes: So-and-so likes frivolous crap, such-and-such hates when people make animal noises. Sometimes these thoughts are so overpowering that I tell people that they're perverts.
Fantasy: a closet full of clean white shirts with starched collars. Reality: balls of hair everywhere.
I am almost completely unable to tell one thing from any other thing.
Conclusion: all things are alike; nothing has value.
