I’m beginning to think that I’m working too hard at this not-working thing. My entire morning so far could be efficiently summed up by that perennial truth, “I can’t brain today. I have the dumb.” So far, GAMES Magazine has forced me to look at the answers for the Kid Stuff Puzzles (a candy that starts with Y?!) and while I solved the last maze I have absolutely no idea what the resulting image is supposed to represent.
I have, however, decided upon a naming theme for any eatery I may happen to own in the future. The menu shall be filled with delicacies such as “Gooey Eggplant of Deliciousness” (eggplant rounds alternated with slices of mozzarella cheese and doused with vegetable-rich tomato sauce, all baked together) and “Iced Coffee of Which There Is Not Enough in the World” (which is self-explanatory, really).
This problem isn’t new today, either. Yesterday, I went to wash a plate and was standing in front of the bathroom sink before I realized that I had walked all the way through the kitchen and something was wrong. I thought that under-caffeination might be the problem, so I had a glass of coffee and sat down to Googlechat with a friend. I informed her that I had repeated something “vertabim” and then spent a full three minutes staring at the red underlining of doom and trying to figure out why it was wrong. I had another glass of coffee and decided to stop being social, instead focusing on my job search. I found an interesting position in Tacoma, Washington and figured that I should check out a map, since what I know about the state of Washington could fit inside the tip of a Monopoly thimble. And then I chortled, “Awwww, look at all the little arpeggios!”
Maybe I should have expected that my music!nerd mind would revert to musical terminology when I babble, but I assure you that the word I was looking for was archipelagos.
Archipelagos, archipelagos, archipelagos.
My father keeps telling me that this would be the ideal time for me to get to work writing the Great American Novel. The only possible response I can give to him is:
part a) Did you read Kurt Vonnegut’s Galapagos? and
part b) I would title it John Dies At the End.
At the end of what? I dunno. Is “Dies” his surname or what he does? No idea. Do his friends call him John or does he go by Jack? You know what? Write the bloody book yourself. I can’t wash my dishes in the right sink, let alone structure a scintillating, whirlwind adventure through the great American mores. Clearly, I am not to be trusted with this. Arpeggios, indeed.
Singing is usually the answer to my incoherence. Actually, singing is usually the answer to a great many of my problems. Oh, how happy the world might be if we all just sang our conversations to each other! No, wait. I tried that for a time, back in high school, and I think my mother almost had me locked away with my insanity. Perhaps I’ll throw myself a little five minute dance party instead. I’ve got some fabulously embarrassing 80s tunes buried in my hard drive, perfect for settling down to a little boogie all alone in my apartment.
Why don’t they
Doooo what they say
Saaay what they mean?
One Thing Leads Another!