Been addicted to Omegle all day, the chat program which connects you to a completely random stranger. I just wished a gay Brazilian teenager good luck on his exams, after spending a quite significant chunk of my day in a rather gratifying discussion with a Swedish student named Phillip about med school, music, Italian earthquakes, and, finally, the current global economic downturn and what it’s been going to Iceland. It’s also freaking fantastic for surreal fun, so much so I’m going to start a file of my favourite saved conversations. Have you got any?
Tag: awareness
the darkest of the darkest purple
Our Lady of the Metaphor, as discovered by Vandonovan in the truly terrible novel, Silk & Steel:
So, let’s pretend it’s pretty late and you’re doing a little light reading before bed, as you sometimes do. This book is one that you bought used probably fifteen years ago and it has sat on your shelf since then. Now, you’ve decided to read it and within the first page you realize it’s one of those fantasy novels, written by a man who wants to idolize his fantasy princess dream woman. But after he gets past describing her in chapter one you think, okay. Maybe there’s a good story in this book anyway.
Anyway, it’s only 200 pages, so even if it’s awful it’ll be quick.
So it’s late. You’re about halfway finished with the book. The princess has met the faerie king and he’s brought her to the faerie court! She’s met the faerie wives! And you turn the page and come across this:
Also see:
It’s easier to fly when my head is held up.
My replacement at work, she slapped my peripheral vision as soon as I walked in. She seems more the kind of person to work in my shop than I could ever be. I can’t help but approve of her rock-a-billy zebra lunchbox and betty page haircut. They matched her leopard skirt so well. My manager, she just shook her head. Another new girl is no help to her. She’s only just through teaching me how to run the strangely mis-managed shop around and in spite of how badly and quirkily organized the owner has it set up. It’s only been November she’s been able to leave me for hours at a time to handle everything. I almost feel sorry for the new girl. I don’t know if she has the diplomatic memory to deal with the crying chaos she’s just been inserted into. Every day reaches a new impasse with stress, introduces another piece of the suspicious labor law puzzle. I’m counting on my job to be gone when I come back from Montreal, otherwise I may find myself trapped there by a lazy sympathy for my co-workers and that might count as a new dictionary definition of the word dreadful.
So it seems the biological source/reservoir for the dreaded Ebola Virus are some tiny, cute, and apparently tasty fruitbats. The apparently tasty is why we keep having outbreaks. How fun is that? As fun as a pack of russian killer squirrels? Or a group of children who fight with machetes to re-enact a battle from Lord of the Rings? The jury may still be out, arguing with David Byrne over copyrights.