Thursday, 30 March 2006
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I realize that the mere suggestion of returning full tilt to the xanga arena may send at least two loyal readers into fits of joyful celebration (or sarcastic ecstasy - whichever), but I caution all the bored consumers of my ritualistic pap that this single entry does not designate a comeback. Most comebacks involve lots of secretive training out of the public eye, right? Then there are the third-person cut-a-ways that demonstrate the iron willed determination of the subject to "show those bastards" what they were apparently neglecting. Well, in this case, I haven't done anything approximating training, and I can't even convincingly argue that tremendous events of interest and insight have accumulated in the months that have passed since my last correspondence. Fact is, I just lost the inspiration. Perhaps I could write about that, eh? Sod it. I bored myself at the suggestion. Maybe dating. Dating seemed to be fertile ground for run-on sentence-making and sardonic hyperbole. Everyone enjoys reading how screwed up other people are when it comes to sex and love - if this weren't the case, Oprah wouldn't have much of a list (unless there's a whole underground genre of literature meeting the needs of female Trekkies and goths who prefer Sleepless in Seattle to the Matrix. It would be a crossbreed of true crime, action/sci-fi and general fiction. Sort of Tuesdays with Morrie meets the Martian Chronicles).
Imagine: Planet Libido - a new kind of sanctuary for convicted Catholic priests and America's finest female writers. All citizens of Libido must live under tyrannical robot mothers that feed like vampires on self-esteem. So too, must all male Libidos feign heterosexuality and compensate for the existential pretense with repeated self-abuse and periodic road-tripping to Vegas for "girls' nites!" A minor rebellion was narrowly averted in the early years of colonization when it was discovered that the same pair of denim trousers would not, contrary to conventional wisdom, fit everyone on the planet, let alone contrive to make everything okay. Authorities were quick to respond, asserting that dramatic weight fluctuations should be mandated to alleviate the practicality of owning pants altogether. Within one lunar year, a typical colonist must now lose or gain the difference between the masses of Rene Zellweger and Star Jones, respectively. Obviously, some lunar years are easier than others.
And since I have now conspired to write myself so far off-topic (or lack thereof) that I cannot in good faith make any valid effort to return, I shall endeavor to ignore whatever it was I thought I was saying in the first place. ...and...done.
I do however have a lovely bit of verse that I meant to include in what now is a very old entry about being sick at work. I believe I was in a meeting (see: AERM) and I forgot that the following is the only tangible reward for my attendance that fine, illin' day. It's not good poetry in the least, but it does convey a sense of the absurd that I believe supports the equally absurd premise of that December day.
Mete Me at Three-thirty (bitch!)*
My job deals with people
meeting people
meeting other people
about people we didn't invite to meet (yet).
Meetings meting meetings about people meting other people in meetings about people who couldn't meet because they couldn't meet their schedule, meting disaster.
Such meting of meetings demands an awful amount of time.
And always, I leave meetings with my expectations having never been met.
Clearly, I need to meet some better people.
* I just tacked this on. It was never intended to be a part of the formal (ahem) moniker. I apologize for being crass and if, in the process of selfishly amusing myself, I offended any bitches.
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