I was forced to leave this note in the kitchen this morning:
“To the individual who, sometime Thursday morning, took my soup out of the fridge, spilled some on the floor, put it back without covering it properly, and left without cleaning up his spill, thus causing me to stumble barefoot into yellow liquid at 9:00 AM while nauseous:
When I find out who you are, you will suffer torments new to experience of man.
For a lesser food-crime than this, in Kentucky a man lies in a shallow grave, the fondou he did offend against smeared across his sightless eyes, his mouth still agape in an expression of faint shock. This fate and worse await you. Settle your affairs and compose your mind and spirit.
Have a nice day,
I think my handwriting sort of lends an air of legitimacy to death threats.
I was listening to The New Pornographers before chemistry lab. I am now fairly certain that Bleeding Heart Show is about halides. Also, that the phrase “lead-two acetate” is in there *somewhere*.
I keep following Jenan’s advice about Chinese Lit assignments and getting C’s. I think I will stop doing that now. Bad Jenan.
Today there was a most excellent thing in the dining hall. For some reason, they called it “Vegetable Panache.”
Yes, I’m sure this dish does have more panache than most served there. It also has more moxie, more poise, more élan, and probably more Kool-Aid Points. And “Veggie Moxie” would have been a much better name. So I am left wondering, “why?” Why panache? Why use that specific word they don’t understand, when out there in the wild outer reaches of the English language there are words like “agglutination” and “fandango?” Why don’t they serve this more often? What does it take to get a correctly cooked piece of broccoli around here?
My mind may never be at peace.
Maybe I could *ask* them to rename it “Veggie Moxie.”
My immense genius has naturally afforded me many opportunities in life that others, less-gifted, would never have the joy of experiencing. Today, for example, my brilliance led me not to check what was in the sink in the chemistry lab before I turned the faucet on, causing a mysterious blueish chemical in a tub to splash up onto my face, some of it getting into my mouth. I have spent the last forty-five minutes spitting and pondering whether my stomach is cramping because I swallowed some of it or because of the placebo effect.
You people who aren’t *smart* don’t even know what the placebo effect *is*, I’ll bet.
I’ll be skipping dinner. If I don’t show up for work tonight, you have permission to break the door down with an axe. ’cause that’d be pretty cool. Us smart people *appreciate* axes.
I just had a revelation. Next time I’m watching a bad movie and there’s some idiots in love talking about sunrises and flowers and kittens and stuff, I can sing, “Your love is like baaaad metaphors!”
My revelations aren’t very good, are they?
Yesterday I gave my paycheck for this week plus $5 to the Red Cross. Today the internet tells me that Homeland Security is keeping them out of New Orleans, because the people still in the city are all just there because they’re too dumb and lazy to leave. If food and medical care are kept *just out of reach*, surely *then* those silly dying people will pick themselves up and get out.
For my first post, here is an email I sent at two AM yesterday.
Subject: Hi, Mom, I think I might have hemorrhoids!
About half an hour ago I experienced what Dr. Frozenday would probably term “acceptable rectal bleeding.” Having finally, at long last, learned the definition of that enigmatic, apposite-seeming term, though I am elated, I also feel oddly adrift and purposeless.
At least there’s still “do not consume pineapple in amounts greater than those normally found in food.”
The woman at the campus health center just laughed at me when I asked if I needed to *ruin my whole goddamn week* by calling an ambulance, and said no, I should just get an appointment down there sometime soon, unless it turns into that unacceptable type of rectal bleeding, which – I mean, not to be arrogant – I feel I’m pretty much an authority on.
So, if I call you from a hospital or something to ask questions about whether that was an upper or lower GI series I had last year, don’t freak out, and don’t let Dad do a lot of unnecessary driving or CALL ME IN A PANIC REAL EARLY IN THE MORNING, because that means that the terrorists have *won*.
If Sam’s boyfriend’s still there when you get this, please get him and Dad in the room together and make an announcement about my rectal bleeding. Tape the event, if possible.