Monday, March 06, 2006

WIENER DOG

You know those scenes in Welcome to the Dollhouse when middle child Dawn Wiener becomes extremely frustrated with something or someone, and then the camera focuses on a closeup of her boiling face and the audio plays barbaric war cries? Middle child Dawn Wiener's whole face burns, her eyes pop out, and you can almost see little red horns sprout through the top of her forehead. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you must go rent Welcome to the Dollhouse immediately. 'Cuz this middle child hears those barbaric war cries in his head and goes more than just a leetle bit psychotic when something suddenly disturbs him, too. I wonder if war cries blaring on internally installed brain-stereos are common in middle children who now live their adult lives like destructive locomotives? And this is why I drink. The end.

After picking up my formerly broken laptop, I made an astronomical To-Do List in my Microsoft Outlook. I am busy until mid-July. Seriously. The last due date is some time around July 20th. Then, I was so overwhelmed that I closed my computer and then spent three ridiculous hours on the phone having two separate conversations where I attempted to convince my closest girlfriends Colleen and Heather to have my babies some time during the next 6 to 10 years. As soon as one of them agrees, I'll put her name and gynecology appointments into my Outlook, too. I wonder if they know they're in competition? If so, I hope they're not both secretly planning to lose. During these history-altering telephone conversations, which I've convinced myself will somehow change the way the world spins on its axis (I needed an important excuse for not working), I did not open an expensive bottle of Orvieto Classico that I've been saving for a special occasion. I am not on the last glass right now. I am definitely not about to open another bottle while having more ridiculous conversations with my flatmate Peter.

Next weekend Peter is going to Africa for one (1) to two (2) months. He told me the exact number of weeks approximately ten (10) minutes ago but I have forgotten due to no longer having short-term memory because of excessive club drug abuse when I was young and stupid. Ask me on July 20th and perhaps I'll have remembered by then. But probably not. While Peter is gone, when I'm not off galavanting somewhere on my trip list (ahem, to the right), I will become a reclusive gnome who drools all over my laptop and myself. Sometimes I really wish I was black. Which is completely unrelated but true nonetheless.

In the meantime, to continue this unexpected bout of procrastination that really must end soon, tomorrow I am flying off to Porto and shant return until late Thursday night/early Friday morning. I just performed a formal 26-minute oration with small cameos of interpretive dance and mime about how I absolutely must take my laptop to Porto with me so I can work in my hotel. After giving me a standing ovation and a bouquet of Pinot Grigio bottles for my performance, Peter threatened to toss my laptop out the window. When this threat did not work, he reminded me that I will be pissed the entire time in Porto since I will spend most of my time at the Port Lodges near the river. For fear of dropping my beloved laptop after too much port tasting, I have agreed to travel laptop-free, and will instead write my dissertation, conference papers, and book chapters on my hotel walls with my own shit. Oh. Was that just too much?

QUOTE OF THE DAY:
Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead. - Charles Bukowski