Perhaps Tipsy, Yes
26 March 1999
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Perhaps Tipsy, Yes
26 March 1999
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7:01 PM: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...........
What I can't figure out today is why my legs are so sore. It feels like I've been running, which I surely have not. Unless I'm sleepjogging. Maybe I should stop wearing that track suit to bed.
One of the people from the production group here is leaving, off to his own comapny, a nice destination that. Being Irish, he, there's a keg of Guinness here, and while normally I avoid these Friday afternoon beer parties, well, Guinness... I have to be reasonable, you know...
The bad side of beer in the afternoon for me - who only got here at 3 and so still face most of my working day - is that I end up either very very bored or asleep. Asleep is the worst, so I'm glad to just be bored I suppose. Huzzah.
I was reading this article on Salon the other day. Now before you start, I know, I know. I shouldn't really pay attention to the "human interest" creamy filling at Salon. Especially this new "Urge" section, which has been especially bilgeful since its inception. And I'm not, really. I wouldn't even think of going into how pathetic the basic story is.
There's a bit at the beginning, though, where the author is deriding her last boyfriend - "a penis the exact size and shape of a golf pencil", charming, eh? - and explaining that she - surely the picture of desirability and physical perfection herself - had no choice but to date such a loser. She is an older woman, what can she do? There aren't any men available.
And I wondered, where is she? Where are these legendary older women who can't get dates? Because I don't seem to know any. Actually, it's beyond that; I don't seem to know very many people my age at all. Not just because I avoid them and am immature and have bad habits, they don't seem to be around anywhere I am. All home watching "The Sopranos" and doing Tae Bo, I guess.
But then. Then I read further, and discover that this sad woman of those sunset years is 30. That's 30. Thirty years old. Oh yeah, nearly dead, she is. Goddamn infant, that's what she is.
Honey, you have no idea.
11:17: Heh! I couldn't get this script I'm writing to run, and after playing with the PATH setting and worrying about what was wrong with my shell session and logging out and back in, I discovered that in the startup line at the top, I had misspelled 'perl' as 'erpl'. That's completely inside-out. Brain damage. Cool.
Willfully blind self-indulgent nebbish or amusingly quirky old coot? And how bout that local sports team? Discuss among yourselves.
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All names are fake, most places are real, the
author is definitely
unreliable but it's all in good fun. Yep.
© 1998-1999 Lighthouse for the Deaf. All rights reserved and stuff. The motto at the top of the page is a graffito I saw on Brunswick Street in Melbourne. | ||||
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