Shaggy Dog; No Keys

I was singing a little tune today on the way to work and my voice cracked. This is what happens when you spend the night before in a musty old bar drinking pints with your coworker and smoking some two hundred cigarettes in quick succession, talking shit about everything and especially about yourselves. It was astonishing how quickly the conversation came around to religion (and 'Spirituality', of course); what usually takes a solid four hours of throwing 'em back was accomplished in a matter of 45 minutes, and then I stumbled home. I can't quite piece together what happened after that, but I remember having an incredibly intense discussion with Dan about him and me and the nature of Us and what he does and not love about me. And by intense discussion I mean I quizzed him on the depths and breadths of his love for me and asked questions that have no good answers. (I remember only that the personal feature I most need to work on is my feet.) Then we had a play fight about something or another, which ended when I stormed into the bedroom, hauled out our largest suitcase, threw my toothbrush in, put on sunglasses and stomped into the night. Barefoot and in pyjamas, it goes without saying. Then I realized I had no follow up plan. So I stood around flapping my arms because I realized that I didn't have my keys. A few moments later, Dan kindly went to the trouble of opening the door, coming outside, telling me I'm an idiot and insisting that I come back inside. Obviously this was all great fun to me. Jury's still out on whether I get to sleep in bed tonight.

Anyway, my voice cracked this morning and then I thought, perhaps I need to be just be still for a minute. With my humming and buzzing and jittering and snuffling and coughing and talking and talking and talking I sometimes feel like I'm trying to disguise myself as a whole city, in order not to hear myself think too clearly. Sometimes I think I use my voice so often and for the wrong things that I can't even remember what I'm trying to say. This mostly happens at work. Work at our office constitutes a "challenge" the way that slamming your face into a wall is an "uphill battle." Sometimes I feel like my real self is being subsumed into this creature I become at work, this feathered reptile that has evolved to fit into an absurd world, adapted to these improbable conditions . What kind of person do you become if you spend fifty hours a week in a place where people sitting ten feet apart write each other electronic letters? And where people answer the phone with that particular sing-song tone fall, the one that signifies fuck all except that you are on the phone, a fact that any jackass on the other end could have told you anyway. It exhausts me to go to work in the morning, but it also exhausts me to leave again. Mostly because, on my way out, I realize that THAT is where I just spent one whole precious day that I have to live on God's green earth.

But the POINT is that my voice cracked this morning and since I couldn't sing I wandered down the street and hummed, instead.

A Short List of Things We Should Probably Discuss at Great Length Somewhere Else

First of all, the following sick tautology. When our feet stink we pick them up and take a sniff and declare that they smell like old cheese. When we eat old cheese we pick it up and take a sniff and declare that it smells like feet. In all seriousness, whose funk is original?

Secondly, crystallized armpit hair. Don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. Dan himself has a cozy flock going half the time, he'll be pleased to learn I shared with you. It's when your armpits sweat and then the salt crystallizes along individual pit hairs, sometimes fusing together, to create what on a molecular level is probably a really beautiful space like some strange underground cavern full of twisting stalagmites and whatever. On a not molecular level, it pretty much looks like your armpits are full of mineral-encrusted armpit hair. I say "your" because my pits are as smooth as your mom. Which my boyfriend reliably informs me is why we, and I mean "we" as in people, never talk about armpit hair. Apparently men would never waste their breath talking about it, and in our circles they are the ones who are primarily afflicted. But that's stupid because you know what else men never talk about? Your U-spot. And I say "your" because what I really mean is me and my earth sisters.

No idea what a U-spot is? Yeah. Figures.

Lastly, grass fetuses. If you are unfamiliar with the grass fetus, it's what you find when you split a blade of grass open in the middle of May. Tucked into stem between the blade and the root is a perfectly formed, bright green grass fetus just waiting to peel off into the world and ripen into grass seeds. Last summer my friends and I sat by a pond and aborted them individually one beautiful day. We established that they would make a pleasantly crunchy if flavorless addition to a light salad, possibly in combination with toasted grains and a mild goat cheese. And my question is, pretty much humans have eaten everything that won't kill them since the beginning of time. So what's up with us not eating grass fetuses? It's not like we're going to run out of the things any time soon. They could be this delicious seasonal delicacy. What gives? Are they secretly poisonous, only me and my hunter-gatherer friends are immune? I mean, its pretty cool if I have some rare grass fetus immunity, because even fluffy bunnies make me break out (especially fluffy bunnies, and pillows and flowers and god knows probably rainbows and true love, too), but somehow I doubt it. So...does that mean we discovered something totally delicious that's actually a secret? That would make us geniuses. Because hahaaaa, suckers, that shit was right there in front of you all the time, hiding in the grass. Or we're at least Explorers. We're pretty much the Magellan of grass fetuses. Which is probably more than some people accomplish on a Saturday, right?

And speaking of Magellan and fetuses, you thought I was making things up back there when I was talking about the U-spot, didn't you. Schooled.

The sex offender shuffle: everybody clap your hands!

I don't know what this is about, but I think that they're trying to say that even sex offenders can get down. Probably.

glumbert - Sex offender shuffle