emma b. says

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Waisting, Waisting!

Though my fingers are tetchy and screaming, delete! delete! Delete previous rambling, quickly so that we may restore our digited dignity, we stand by our (jesus, Emma, spell check, darling) ranting.

Oddly, we forgot to set the alarm last night, and when we arose, seven minutes from bed to bus stop, we had to gather our wits about us, and parse the previous evening, as we assembled our attire and applied our face all slap-dash, so that when we left the house we suspect we looked something like Marcel Marceau, minus the white pancake.

Two fortifying cups of coffee later we cautiously logged in to see what we might have bared to the internets, and nearly fell out of our ergonomically correct chair when we read that we were "waisting" our life.

I think I might be an idiot savant, because truly, waisting, is brilliant - and spelled properly I might add. Consider Flaubert's Emma, all corseted up, waisting, waisting away... Leon, my Leon.

Aside our bouts of unintentional brilliance, I think it's safe to say that we are suffering from a recent condition I would like to call "Election Malaise". Can we not just get it over with allfuckingready? Salon had a scholarly article on how to piece together all of the various polls and as our eyes first crossed and then glazed over we remarked to our heedless monitor that we couldn't give two shits anymore and could someone please, please give us some fulfilling Cheeto eating Brittany gossip, so we could have a hearty laugh at the poor child's undoing. Because you know that the end is nigh when your girlfriends in France start sending you jokes about Florida, and you utter a stilted bahhh, bahh and hang your head in shame that our country has become the sorry, sagging, cottage cheese butt of a thousand jokes, and our sorry purience has made us an international laughing stock.

jeebus, if I had anything with greater girth than our extremely girly umbrella, I would be beating people in red states, rise, rise from your torpor, rise, rise from your mythology, our nation is dying, and you will go hungry, unable to scrape that extra cent to follow the further exploits of Paris Hilton in US magazine, renegade heiress, ever rich, n-bomb dropper, completely retarded whore-bag.

Sorry, Paris (your cooter smells like) Stilton, makes us come a little unhinged.

Also, we would like you to know that if we got sozzled last night it was purely by accident (conscious interjects, isn't it always) well yes, but the mitigating factors were that we only poked our pallid, crappy salad with a fork and lo, three drinks later on an empty stomach we were sozzled, at which point our logic weighed in and said, " well, you might as well finish the bottle, in the name of Industry" Which must be why we trailed off with an enigmatic "i" as if we had another thought before we toddled mindlessly off to bed, and forgot to set the alarm...


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