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12:15 pm | 24 August 2004 | my sentences done got the runs

The trauma hawk!

Look how awesome THIS is (you can click to enlarge). It is an ambulance whose brand name or make or whatever is TRAUMA HAWK. I love to think about hawks that can, like, sense trauma, like reverse vultures, and come circling with their transgalactic healing powers or whatever. In fact, maybe they will BATTLE the vultures, like Transformers vs. roadkill-munching Decepticons. Sweet!

Tse simplest tsings

So the French have this whole concept* called jolie-laide (joli-laid for you blokes) which translates as "pretty-ugly" and means something like: "the people that are the most shockingly interestingly stunningly attractive can also look the most totally hideous." I have found this to be true some of the time (Angelina Jolie could get covered in molten lead and chickenshit and still look like two billion dollars, but she's special, and GOOD WORK with the last-to-middle name there, Ange). Lots of times your friends just suddenly look weird to you. Next time you hang out with your best friend, look at his/her reflection in the mirror and get ready to WIG, dude.

This is the section with dog pictures


Please for giving me

With most things I am a laid-back lady but certain errands encompassed within the theme of POINTLESSNESS really get my goat. Like, computers not working. Why? Why can't you find the file? You are not human. GET MY FUCKING FILE. Additionally: swarthy men of indeterminate extraction that agree to do your print job for a good rate, and then when you waste your lunch hour driving (with MUCH annoyance) all the way up to stupid Hollywood, they are just NOT THERE. The shop is just CLOSED. Did I mention having to have these copies by Friday? Did I mention that everyplace else is charging me like THREE TIMES as much as this fool was going to, and since I know chapbooks should not EVER be more than say $1.25 each to copy EVER, it really SUCKS to be quoted $3 ($3!!!) each by the heinous Nazism of Kinko's Fascist Copy Corp.** My coworker has recommended some joint deep in the deep depths of Chinatown ("They have a corner on the Asian wedding market" --?!), so I guess I get to truck all the way back up THERE after work and try to explain, with my awesome non-command of Engrish, what I need done. I foresee: "No! Twenty copies, you paper. One on my green, one on my blue. Double--TWO sides. Black only. Black. BLACK COPIES. Fold and staple. Make book. PLEASE FOR GIVING ME CHEAP PRICE!*** [sobbing]."

All downhill

So I was on a bender for like two weeks, and while Friday morning's snowballing trainwreck of a hangover was sufficiently hairy to not only make me call in to work but to make me cry (!!) and stop drinking for a few days--and I haven't been drunk since Thursday night/early Friday morning but BOY was it a drunk for the ages--but so anyway I am still all cracked out and getting like 4.5 hours of sleep a night and I STILL look like shit, all ashy and Gollumy, which begs the question WHY NOT KILL THE PAIN WITH DELICIOUS BOOZEOHOL IF I MUST RESEMBLE THE CRYPT-KEEPER ANYWAY. Seriously, you know that part in the beginning of The Dark Crystal where the king Skeksie dies and crumbles into ash and it's scary as PISS and freaked me unduly from 1982-1996 (like seriously I would cry thinking about it), but WHATEVER, I look like that Skeksie and it's all downhill from here, guys. clm.


*Fuckin' French, all "Oui, look at me, I am busy making all tsese concepts wiv which to complicate my lahfe, meanwahle I cannot do tse simplest tsings I promised I would because it is essential tsat I drihnk wahne all day instead of responding to tse simple emails of tsat American girl who needs tsings from me!" I HATE our Paris subagent. HATE. HATE.

**Which mind you I would have NO moral compunction ripping off in the old style--which is, when they had those cartridges that kept track of your copies, to simply carry an extra one pilfered on a different occasion in your bag, and then transfer half your copies onto that one (yes I know I'm going to hell, and I'LL SEE YOU THERE), but so anyway now they are hip to my scam (and also the fake-trip-whipping-said-cartridge-violently-upon-the-ground-so-as-to-scramble-the-counter-to-read- like-54,897-copies-and-then-feigning-lamblike-confusion-and-saying-"Uh, I don't know...twenty copies?"-to-the-foolishly-trusting-cashier-scam, as pioneered by one mr. eirik ott), and have all fancy prepaid cards and shit, so that's out of the question, unless by some miracle of Lucifer I find an old-skool Kinko's somewhere in like Cerritos or something, which now that I say it sounds fairly likely.

***I totally hope this conveys affection and not racism. I know like FOUR Asians! Don't hate!!


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