Right. I just got back from my office Christmas party. Which dumb boss did not attend. Which was super sweet.
And I had three drinks, which doesn't sound like a lot, but since I've been trying to be a good girl drinking-wise, it adds up. So I'm not drunk, but I'm also most definitely not sober. Not sober. At all. Thus, I am not responsible for any typos. Let's begin.
Reader Appreciation Week is almost at an end. And after my last post, where I basically begged for blog ideas, I have received quite a few. The vast majority of them from a mysterious reader. Hmmm. Very sexy. Or simply mysterious. But I'm gonna say sexy because I've had three drinks. Right now, the chair I'm sitting on is sexy. Whoooo.
On to delivering the people what they want. First command: "write about the secret meaning and wonders of ennui." Well, "ennui" is a French word meaning, basically, boredom. I used it in the title of my blog because a) The quote belongs to Edward Gorey, who is way cool, b) I was very bored when I first began it and c) I was hating the French language, as I had yet to begin studying for my French exam. According to the dictionary, ennui means: "Listlessness and dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest; boredom". A while ago, I decided that boredom was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Recently, I decided that lack of health insurance trumped it. So I got an office job and I spend most of my days fairly bored, trying to justify my choice.
Next assignment: "write about the color green and fonts you don't like". I have very little opinion about fonts. Except the ones that are just symbols. What’s that about?
I love the color green. When I was growing up, the walls in my room were painted a very pale green. It was glorious. Which is an odd way to describe a wall color, but appropriate. I had a creative writing prof in undergrad who graded papers in green pen. And I read somewhere that Pablo Neruda only writes in green. And because I love (LOVE) him I want to be like him. Plus, I think green is hot. Hot!
Moving right along: "write long, flowing blog entries of made up crap about unknown people". Once there was this guy named Frank. Frank lived in Indianapolis, IN. Frank was very embarrassed about his home city. He knew that Kurt Vonnegut was from Indianapolis. He knew that Axl Rose and David Lee Roth and John Mellencamp where from outlying areas. The thing is, he didn't care. And if he didn't care, then he knew for sure that no one else cared. Frank lived with the burden of being from somewhere renowned for nothing. OK. The Indianapolis 500. But really, who watches that on TV, let alone goes there? Who? No one Frank wanted to know. Frank knew that his city was basically a giant strip mall. He knew it lacked character and depth and culture. So Frank moved to New York. And was mugged. The end.
"Write something that pongo can swipe at" Hmmm. I don't really know what you mean by "swipe". It sounds antagonistic. And pongo doesn't seem to be too antagonistic. In fact, he seems like a super guy. So maybe you mean I'm supposed to write things that are controversial. Um...all puppies should die? That's terrible. I take it back. How about this: the war in Iraq is a joke and makes me sick. But that seems to be a common sentiment. At least among people with a college education. Wow. That was controversial. I'll be getting lots of comments written in all caps now.
"Write about me. This is Despain. But don't write about the time we made out in the attic (think I'm pretty safe on this one)." And "write about despain without an attic." Well, Despain and I never made out in an attic. Or made out period. And that's OK. She's hot and all, but that's totally OK. Man. I sound like a huge lesbian. Ah, well.
Despain and I went to high school together. She spent much of that time struggling with the greatest foe a high school girl can face: her hair. But she won the war, and now her hair looks great. Despain was raised in the Mormon church, which means that she was fairly cautious throughout high school. Tried to keep herself on the up and up. Was a good influence that way. We worked together during high school. Pizzeria Uno. That restaurant is directly responsible for half of my ex-boyfriends. And a number of hers, as well. Then she went to college. And fell off the wagon. Not the alcoholic wagon. The Mormon wagon. She fell so hard that there was an audible "thump". And she had a really good time. There were a few quality years there where she could drink anyone under the table. F. Scott Fitzgerald included.
But now she married. And ridiculously happy. The kind of happy where she calls me and apologizes for having no interesting stories to tell, on account of her happiness. But, she is a liar. She does have interesting stories to tell. Example:
Despain is driving to work. She lives near a forest, and she parks her car nightly just on the edge of the forest. She gets into her car one morning to drive to work. It should be noted that her car has large, round vents near the windshield. She is on the expressway, driving along, when she sees something moving out of the corner of her eye. It appears to be the head of a snake. Sticking out of the vent near the windshield.
She panics. She thinks "I did not just see that. There was no snake head sticking out of my vent." And she looks again and it is gone. And she's doing a really good job of convincing herself that she made it all up. Until the snakehead reappears. And stares at her. And sticks out its tongue in a menacing way.
And then the entire snake begins slithering out of the vent, into her car. Mind you, she's on the damn highway, going top speed. It's a miracle she didn't wreck her car. She freaks out, as any person with a pulse would have, and pulls over to the side of the road. A construction crew is nearby and one construction worker with big, thick gloves gets the snake out of her car. And Despain has been traumatized ever since.
She has since gotten rid of that car and purchased a new one. Which makes sense. If a snake came out of a vent in my car while I was driving, I would probably crash into a wall. Despain is a tough lady.
"Write about what is or is not." Hmmm. Big request. I is drunkish. I is not sober. I'll be better equipped to handle this one tomorrow.
Last request: this one was a verbal request from Mr.Smellbad (http://mrsmellbad.motime.com). He is currently living on my couch. He wants me to tell you about last night. He was in the bathroom, doing the thing people do in the bathroom. No, not that thing. The other thing. Peeing. He was peeing.
There is a window just above our toilet. And it was a bit too late when he realized that the blinds for the window were only 1/2 closed. So he is now living in great fear that someone, somewhere, as he puts it, "saw my wiener." This may take years of consuling to work out.
One day left. Submit your comments now. What will I write about tomorrow? Probably my hangover.