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12:46 pm | 22 December 2004 | cycloparappin: CnH4n

We know I like shopping because, helloo-oo, I am a girl*. I also can't get enough of giving presents, so you'd think that these final days before Happy Hellidays would be like nougat ambrosia crack to your carpal-tunnelling authoress. But no, mein tchatz. I felt so full-on freaked about everything that last night, amid trully hellacious traffic, that I pulled screamingly off the highway, tromped to a Rite-Aid, and bought myself a chilled bottle of André champagne, which at $2.99 was cheaper than even the on-saleingest other bottles. And it went down rough. Matty and I were having crafty night and the André treated us like the little gentrified white bizzatches we are. Like, how did I ever think I could legitimately be performing an activity as gayballs as "making a diorama while listening to Sebadoh" while drinking $3 champagne, without having that screw-topped alcohol slap me upside the head like a showbiz husband? This morning my head, she hurt. Ow ow ow. But I still made genius crafts so fuck it.

SO anyhow, I'm usually pretty good with the whole don't-buy-yourself-things-pre-Christmas deal (although I can usually justify it with "I'm bound to get cash from someone so I'm just pre-spending based on assumption. It's the American way!"), but one place I am defenseless, weirdly, is the Underwear Department**. Some time ago I called Jeremy after doing an extensive post-laundry inventory and breathlessly shrieked that I had eighty-five pairs of underwear. Eighty-five! And that was after culling out the non-cute or just thrash-ass oldies. So what have I done these past few weeks? Why, trotted right out and been all "But they are aaaapricot. I neeeeeed them. They're sooooooft." My inner whine has the same sibilance as the snake speaking to Eve, seriously. And my underwear drawer, she spilleth over--and to no real avail, because I concede, for once, Jeremy's point: Boys don't care about underwear. But I do, goddamn it. I care about all ninety-three pair of them. clm

* don't even bother commenting all "I am a girl and I hate shopping." No you don't. Shut up.
** this is not to imply that i don't also have a problem with shoes, but i have fewer than 30 pairs so i think that's under control.

Today was made marginally better by finding this note in the alley, which just goes to show that evil scientists doodle, too:

front: chemical structure of napthalene. back: self-portrait with spectacles.

It was amid all these other old scraps and a official-looking, preprinted postcard whose full address is:

Seriously, that's it. What the hell is with the "25" shit, and no zipcode? Is this some kind of medieval postal system, like how the phone service used to be all "LOng Beach 678" or whatever? Huh?

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