mimi smartypants
Seriously, though: what's with the penguins?

just smoked some gage I'm on a rampage

I have been cursing a lot lately. Maybe I unwittingly had unprotected conversation and contracted a case of Tourette syndrome. Remember, kids: Always Practice Safe Discourse.

I have also been talking about sex a lot lately, as some of you have pointed out to my great embarrassment. This is the part where I shuffle around, look down at the floor, and mutter “I'm sorry” in my smallest voice. There may also be some nervous giggling. I resolve to try and restore this page to its former PG-13 state.

Last night I had plans (simultaneously vague and grand) to go to a show, but it turned out to start way too late in the evening for this working girl. So instead it was just tofu satay for dinner and chatting with that guy again. We shared a bottle of Miller High Life and drank it out of teacups just like real alcoholics, and recorded more spoken word/strange noises to manipulate and computerize and play with. Now I have both Mr M. doing a painting based on a dream I had and my best friend making pleasing musical noises out of my speech. I kind of like running around town being a catalyst for art, being the crazy-ass muppet-like beer-swilling Muse of the Windy City. Need some raw material? Just call mimi smartypants.

Another friend sent me a quotation that I like a lot, which is apparently from the Drew Carey Show, of all things: “Oh, you hate your job? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar.”

I don't really hate my job, but I am a bit cranky that I have to be there tomorrow (which, for those of you keeping score at home, is Saturday). I shouldn't complain too much, as I am getting a “free” day off later on as compensation (since I don't get paid extra for attending this meeting). But still. Up early on a Saturday. I think I may have to go shopping or have some drinks afterwards, just to get over the crankiness.

Keywords: advertising, breasts, fashion, history of technology, streamlining, women's history.

SOME VERY SILLY WRITING, PARTS ONE AND TWO

PART ONE

LESS THAN ZERO (IS THE SETTING ON MY HEARING AID): or, BRET EASTON ELLIS AT THE RETIREMENT CONDOMINIUM COMPLEX (a parody)


“Um…dude?”
I am wearing my Prada sunglasses and lying out by the pool and I try very carefully not to look at Tyler as I say, “What?”
“Do you have any…gingko biloba?”
I absolutely cannot deal with this and I clench my fist, very, very slowly because of the pain. “No. No I do not have any fucking gingko biloba so just shut up. Go play shuffleboard for Christ's sake.”
Tyler, looking dejected, limps away. The idiot has Alzheimer's and probably won't last too long. He used to be an executive at Virgin but then he got addicted to Doan's Pills and now he's just a drooling fool. Rock and roll.
I shift in my lounge chair and finally begin to relax, the four Tylenol or maybe it was Advil I popped earlier starting to kick in and I finger the face-lift scars on my forehead and try to remember the last time I could piss without difficulty.

(This could go on. But it shan't.)

PART TWO

WHAT I WROTE FIRST THING THIS MORNING STILL HALF ASLEEP

In the cradle, charge the battery. Charge the battery and pay for it later. Charge the battery with the light brigade. Here comes the brigade, bringing light. Thanks for the light, brigade! They bring candlelight, fluorescent light. They bring overhead light. They bring indirect light. They bring the light that reflects off the lumpy forehead of the hydrocephalic. And the square solid light you can hold in your hands.

LET'S ALL GO TO THE LOBBY

Who will go see this movie with me? It sounds like just the sort of slightly pretentious dark mopey drug movie that I would enjoy. Let's go really late at night. Okay? It's a date!

—mimi smartypants has a head full of whirling confetti.