out for the count

 

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Wednesday, March 26, 2003

 
My grandmother smoked cigarettes for 60 years. By the time she was 80, the sound of her breathing had become a low whistle, a rhythmic wheeze as she forced air through her lungs, accompanied by the occasional hacking of a seasoned smoker. Lately, my air conditioner has been coughing and wheezing like my grandmother used to. I don't know how to make it stop.

You think maybe this is a divine sign from beyond that my grandmother is trying to communicate with me? Just a thought.

Tuesday, March 25, 2003

 
Shut up and make me a turkey pot pie, bitch...

I was peacefully napping earlier this evening, dreaming of teddy bears and rainbows, when the phone woke me up. When I picked up, my darling mother was singing into the other end. Sweet, sweet tunes. "Lindsey, you need to get off your ass." (Do wop do wa.) "You have to start working harder." (La, la, la, la.) "I don't understand what you're doing with all your time." (And the colored girls went "doo da do doo doo da do doo.") I'm baffled. Two jobs, 15 credit hours, double major, volunteer work, 3.75. I mean, really, I'm not a fucking kung fu ninja. There are only 24 hours in a day. If she really knew what was best for me, she'd tell me to stay up late, forget to eat breakfast, not wash behind my ears or in my belly button, get liquored up every night, have casual sex with every attractive stranger I meet, and skip my classes and shifts like a champion. Yes. And then, she'd send me a check for a million dollars. I bet your mothers do all that stuff.


Monday, March 24, 2003

 
What I learned this weekend:

Any mention of "slow head" instantly commands the attention of every male within a 100 ft radius.
Hands down, the best euphemism for vagina is "nana."
Leo doesn't like cops and Tom is much too high strung.
There are a plethora of Susana's brother look a-likes in the greater Gainesville area.
There is such a thing as too little pubic hair.
Susana + Lindsey + alcoholic beverages = boisterous conversation involving anything sex related.

Friday, March 21, 2003

 
Giving New Meaning to the Age of Reality Television

Does anyone else find it a bit disturbing that with the simple press of a button, you can be watching a war on live television? I realize that there's not any actual graphic footage, but the whole concept just seems macabre. Just knowing that with each little spark of light and its accompanying kaboom, limbs are being ripped off bodies and spewed into the air. Flesh is being melted off faces. Women and children are being covered with the red of their own blood. I don't know. It's just not right.
I have a pitch to make to Fox. I like to call it "Murdered by America." Representatives from different Iraqi towns would come and complete for their lives. The talent is optional: dancing, singing, juggling. If their talent is scratching their ass while they piss on the audience, hey, fine. Just so long as they prove how much they love America. At the end of the show, simply call in or text message your votes. Viola, the town of the representative that appreciates America the least gets it. Just think of the ratings it'd get. We could make another couple million merchendising. And what's more democratic then having American citizens decide the path of war? Life is good.