Interior monologues, part I
Wednesday, 16. July 2008, 23:06:28
...wonder what I ought to make for dinner? There's that dead chicken carcass in the fridge. I could swing by Trader Joe's and get a jar of green curry, slap it all together over rice, and Greg would never know it was leftovers. MMMmm, chicken carcass...
I love driving but I also love biking. How could I possibly combine the two?
I can't believe I'm 36. THIRTY SIX. I'm reading some chick writer's blog and she's talking how she just turned 30 and OMG suddenly superficial stuff doesn't matter anymore, like, because she's all old and stuff and so she doesn't care what other people think and JUST SHUT UP NOW. Bitch. And I still watch cartoons. Do old people watch cartoons? CARTOONS. Animated films, my butt. They're CAR-fing-TOONS, and I love them, and I will watch them until I die or they roll me up in a sweater with no sleeves and take me off to the funny farm. Which may be sooner than later, I'm thinking...
Damn. Don't knit fat yarn on extra small sock needles if you don't want crab hands. CRAB HANDS!
Do. Not. Want. Why do customers call me with unsolveable problems? No, I can't tell you why it's not the same color as the sample on your computer monitor. Maybe you need to clean your monitor. MAYBE YOU NEED A BRAIN TRANSPLANT. No, I did not just say that aloud. The customer is always right and I really care and I have oceanfront property in Arizona to sell you. From my front porch you can see the sea...dang, George Strait is cuter than hell for a cowboy.
Why do we have to work, anyway? I thought in the new millennium, we would have robot slaves. Where's my damn robot slave? I have a highly evolved chimp brain that should be freed from this mundane workaday bullshit to drift in the aether. I should be lolling about on robot-tended green lawns, under lemon trees, inventing new philosophies and music and art forms, not flattening my butt on a swivel chair under fluorescent lighting whilst my body deteriorates at a cellular level. Unless we're not the highly evolved chimps we believe ourselves to be, but instead are actually the bio-organic slaves to our technologically superior cyborg masters, whose survival depends on our daily usage of their keyboard souls. You know what Tom Waits says--anything you can think of is true, so therefore it must be so...
I love driving but I also love biking. How could I possibly combine the two?
I can't believe I'm 36. THIRTY SIX. I'm reading some chick writer's blog and she's talking how she just turned 30 and OMG suddenly superficial stuff doesn't matter anymore, like, because she's all old and stuff and so she doesn't care what other people think and JUST SHUT UP NOW. Bitch. And I still watch cartoons. Do old people watch cartoons? CARTOONS. Animated films, my butt. They're CAR-fing-TOONS, and I love them, and I will watch them until I die or they roll me up in a sweater with no sleeves and take me off to the funny farm. Which may be sooner than later, I'm thinking...
Damn. Don't knit fat yarn on extra small sock needles if you don't want crab hands. CRAB HANDS!
Do. Not. Want. Why do customers call me with unsolveable problems? No, I can't tell you why it's not the same color as the sample on your computer monitor. Maybe you need to clean your monitor. MAYBE YOU NEED A BRAIN TRANSPLANT. No, I did not just say that aloud. The customer is always right and I really care and I have oceanfront property in Arizona to sell you. From my front porch you can see the sea...dang, George Strait is cuter than hell for a cowboy.
Why do we have to work, anyway? I thought in the new millennium, we would have robot slaves. Where's my damn robot slave? I have a highly evolved chimp brain that should be freed from this mundane workaday bullshit to drift in the aether. I should be lolling about on robot-tended green lawns, under lemon trees, inventing new philosophies and music and art forms, not flattening my butt on a swivel chair under fluorescent lighting whilst my body deteriorates at a cellular level. Unless we're not the highly evolved chimps we believe ourselves to be, but instead are actually the bio-organic slaves to our technologically superior cyborg masters, whose survival depends on our daily usage of their keyboard souls. You know what Tom Waits says--anything you can think of is true, so therefore it must be so...
Mmmm... Green Thai curry...
What kind of person dreams about a bikecar? Probably the same kind of bass playing manboob sporting guy who has crab hands!
Who said "maybe you need a brain transplant?" Is she really in customer service? Does she look at George Strait through beer goggles? She works too much! She sure looks good in florescent lighting, though.
Cartoons are for people with a joi d'vivre that isn't understood by regular folk. I'm just
saying. Errr... Thinking.By noah counte, # 17. July 2008, 02:01:25
Snort!
By mlynnjohnson, # 17. July 2008, 04:34:19
By The Eye of Horus, # 17. July 2008, 07:18:23
By noah counte, # 17. July 2008, 11:43:09
The green curry turned out pretty good--mainly because I smothered it in fresh cooked vegetables, too.
Crab hands, heh...
By mlynnjohnson, # 17. July 2008, 13:43:55
Well, maybe some lemongrass, some tofu, and some eggplant...
By noah counte, # 17. July 2008, 14:42:17
By noah counte, # 17. July 2008, 14:44:03
And that's at 8:00 in the am after a bowl of pseudo Cheerios. You know, the cheap cheap kind that comes in a big ziplock bag.
Yum!
By mlynnjohnson, # 17. July 2008, 15:00:08
Aloo Gobi is a dry Indiana curry (no sauce), usually made with potatoes and cauliflower.
The world record for eating aloo gobi belongs to David Law, who ate 12 dishes of Aloo Gobi in 3 minutes and 12 seconds.
By noah counte, # 17. July 2008, 15:36:39
By mlynnjohnson, # 17. July 2008, 15:39:16
Getting Hoosiers to eat curry is like getting eskimos to grow casabas. Not very likely.
By noah counte, # 17. July 2008, 16:11:03
By mlynnjohnson, # 17. July 2008, 16:15:53
By edwardpiercy, # 19. July 2008, 19:34:51
By mlynnjohnson, # 19. July 2008, 23:44:27