4:33 pm | 30 June 2003 | smack my mouse sexin' area up, eyepatch

Dear, darling readers: I am very disconnected right now and mean to present random bits for your enjoyment, in the manner of a sushi chef or similar.

First off: today, I found David Bowie's Area. So many things are right about this page. Even the coining of the term "area" is mad, mad genius (and i don't mean "mad" the way, you know, Gwen Stefani does. Unsurprisingly, i am not, in fact, a Rastafarian. No, i mean it as in: krazee). Okay, so there's that. And now: other stuff.

On Saturday, in the early morn, i (terribly hungoverly) realized that (I am a cheesedick for even admitting this) I pretty much only cry during Irish music. Yes, it's true. Breakups? Family deaths? Having an adze stuck in my skull? No way, boss, i am stone-cold. But man, if you throw the Pogues' "Thousands Are Sailing" into the stereo, i will bawl like a baby. A weak baby. Pathetic.

I was thinking of new meanings for my name. Claudia itself already pretty spectacularly means "lame" (Claudius I had a clubfoot). Yes. Snicker. But i find myself hankering after one of those Biblical jobs, like how my mom's name is Pearl of God, and my brother's is Helper to the Lord or something. Okay, here are some ideas:
"Claudia: she who eternally fucks up"
"Claudia: aight in the eyes of God"
"Claudia: she who is likely to someday need an eyepatch"
"Claudia: prone to overdoin' it with the maki." Yeah, i have no idea where i'm going with this, either. Go ahead and send suggestions.

OFFICEMICE are coming this week. The mouse sexer has apparently been MIA. I was getting all ready to expound on the whole "who the hell is a mouse sexer" when Dr. Chris started talking about sexing mice at a party last week (out of the blue, too; he didn't even know i was having mouse-sexing uncertainties). Part of me, here, wants to make some rap about being the pimpest boy-mouse, and sexing all the little mouse shorties and whatnot. But i am not quite that ridiculous yet.

ANECDOTALLY: I come from a large but boring town, where, many Wednesdays, we'd head down to the Orbit Room (I know, lame) for what purported to be Goth Night. Since my home city had at best 27 actual goths, this often functioned as an 'alternative' night of sorts ('alternative' included such diverse acts as Bush, Switchblade Symphony, and the wretched Alice in Chains. Do not assume I am a fan of these things). Frequently, the dj would play that controversial Prodigy number "Smack My Bitch Up," but I was neither riled nor offended by it because I thought, through all the strobes and fog and barside chatter, that what the young man was stating so boldly throughout the song was "Snap My Picture." Try it, say it for yourself:

Snap my pic � ture
vs
Smack my bitch up

Brilliantly, almost immediately after i realised that i'd been wrong, i was dancing drunkenly to the song in question and i'll be damned if someone didn't ACTUALLY SNAP MY PICTURE. whoa!

hokay. enough rambling. i'm out. clm.

p.s. squeal! i totally have a crush on somebody. shhh, don't tell.