I am currently stuck in one of those ruts where I absolutely must listen to the same song over and over and over again all day. Even more frightening, it’s Sinead O’Connor. Don’t worry, I’ll get over it soon. Until then, though, I have a serious problem. Here’s what I’m talking about:
My friends think I’m alone but I’ve got secrets
I don’t tell everything about the love I get
I’ve got a loving man but [wait for it...wait for it...] he’s a spirit.
A spirit? What is that supposed to mean? Is she talking about God? Or some (oooooohhh) ghostly lover? Either way it’s one of the worst song lines ever. I have been trying to find a substitute word for when I simply must sing along. For example, “felon,” “dentist,” “republican,” etc. So far the best option I have found is “midget.” What do you think?
UPDATE: OK, here’s another question for your consideration. After the above, Sinead adds:
He never does me wrong, never treats me bad;
He never takes away all the love he has
And I forgive him a million times.
If it indeed is God she’s talking about, why would she have to “forgive him a million times?” Shouldn’t he be forgiving her? I mean, she did tear up that picture of the pope and all. Unless she’s forgiving him for…um…the papacy? Dammit, Sinead, what the fuck are you talking about already?
All of this leads me to believe it might be about a ghostly lover after all. Like a less-obvious version of that Indigo Girls song–which has been done, to say the least. That’s why this song would be much better if the line read “but he’s a cyborg.”
(Hat tip: Clarabella)
I’m sure none of you do, but if anyone pays any attention to the music and book lists to the left, you may have noted that I’ve been a little stuck in the Proust lately. The same volume of A la Recherche has been listed for months.
Here’s what I have to say about all that: F*** that stupid French c***.
Update: I really (I mean REALLY) wanted to title this post "semper aliquid blow me;" I just couldn’t bring myself to.
Hey, Girl!
How are you? Long time no see! Man, really. How long has it been? This sure brings back memories, doesn’t it? Like, remember that paper you wrote for my class? All by yourself? That sure was a good paper.
And it’s a good thing you told me expressly how you didn’t do any outside research for it. Because, you know, otherwise it would have seemed like you cobbled it together out of articles from a major news weekly, an on-line music review, and a published scholarly essay. Just spackled it up with a glue stick and a pair of Fiskars (TM).
So I was pretty amazed how you managed to channel the spirits of those three professional writers as you sat down to compose your chef d’oeuvre. It was like their sentences just flowed through your fingers, word for word. Really, it was a beautiful thing. I’d like to learn how to do that myself.
That’s why I’m glad your little adventure with the student judicial board didn’t sway you from your dreams of collegiate mediocrity. I’m glad you’ve decided to stick it out. Honestly, seeing your smug face flouncing around campus is inspiring, and not just to me. No, you stand out as an emblem of real achievement.
You make me want to be a better writer, if only so that I could get paid for it and not have to deal with illiterate chowderheads like you.
Wishing I could have just found this letter on line instead of having written it myself, but happy in the knowledge that some enterprising young whippersnapper may be able to use it one day to her own advantage,
AtV
After a first unsuccessful foray into the detective business, I was a bit wary of a second attempt. Circumstance, however, forced my hand. Strolling barefoot through the living room after I awoke this afternoon, I chanced upon a mysterious damp patch in the carpet. Roughly turnip-shaped and lacking any noticable color or odor, it sat, impassive, and eyed me with superior contempt.
Repeated pokings revealed nothing new. I decided it must be the result of some type of colorless, odorless liquid coming in contact with the carpet, perhaps by spilling. I called in the usual suspects: the cat, who lawyered up and refused to answer on the grounds that she might incriminate herself, and my friend and recent houseguest who had spent the night on my couch– in prime position to observe the offending spot.
My friend, who had been drinking water out of a top-heavy and spill-prone goblet the night before, denied any involvement. “But the substance is colorless and odorless–just like the water you were drinking! J’accuse!” I barked. She remained intractable and surly. “Dat means nossing. You haff no vay of proofing it vas me.”
True, I had no proof. When in doubt, however, blame a European. They’re always up to no good.
Case Status: Closed
After waking for the third time in as many days to find my toothpaste conspicuously absent from my bathroom counter, I decided to postpone other important case files in order to step up my investigation of this, the case of the missing Crest Vanilla Mint toothpaste.
As on the two preceding days, I found the tube carefully placed on the floor, nestled cozily in the little nook behind the base of my toilet. Cozy, I say, thanks to the warm- and fluffy-looking tumbleweeds of grey cat fur forming a sort of nest about the area. The toothpaste tube, stray dangly earring, and tiny, day-glo-pink mouse toy appeared quite comfy indeed.
“Curiouser and curiouser!” I thought to myself. It was time to process the crime scene: I’d need my magnifying glass, fingerprint tape, tweezers, evidence bags. Unfortunately, my gumshoe kit appeared to be missing as well. After scouring the sitting room and kitchen by the light of my miniature keychain flashlight, I was forced to resort to any detective’s last measure: three happy fingers of whiskey.
As I sat on the couch and surveilled the bathroom through my telephoto glass-bottom, I decided that the real mystery was why no one had bothered to refill the ice cube trays, and vowed to begin interrogating persons of interest as soon as any made themselves known.
Case Status: Suspended
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