the past two days have been so crappy that i really don’t care to relive why. the crowning glory was my purchase of a sleeveless, rose-colored cowl-neck sweater from target to make myself feel better. instead it made me feel guilty for spending money to remedy a bad day. and now the cheap-target-fashion gods have punished me by revealing a large hole at the bottom of the sweater, which will force me to wait in line at the savagely inefficient and annoying target customer service.
as a sort of penance for such indulgent spending, and with the inspiration of a hearty glass of red wine, i purchased two academic books that i probably should have owned long ago: the postmodern condition by lyotard and two by michel foucault, discipline and punish and the history of sexuality. theory. ::shudder::
this red wine also gave me the courage to email my methodologies professor about my midterm reading synthesis, an act that could not have been accomplished without alcoholic assistance. i think i sounded intelligent. i think. i used the word “futurity” and mentioned derrida, devices that should sufficiently mask my confusion and lingering ignorance. hopefully he’ll reply to my email before thursday’s seminar. then i won’t have to talk to him after class, a discussion which i’m sure would only result in him suggesting that i read at least four other texts (two of which will probably be authored by his truly).
while i should probably be getting off to bed, i will leave with the following anecdote. i am soliciting comments:
as i was leaving target on friday, happily swinging my rose-colored sweater in a plastic bag, i noticed a note on my windshield. the note read, “here’s the license plate number from the truck that left the cart loose. i watched it hit your car and thought you might want to know.” i will ignore the grammar concerns in this note (eh? the truck left the cart loose?) thankfully i could find no damage to my beloved ion (woohoo dent-resistant plastic!) however, i will address the following arguments to the author of this note:
- you are a nice person to leave such a note. i would have fled the scene of the crime ASAP, hanging my head in bad-neighbor shame.
- wtf! you watched the cart hit my car? you should have tackled that bad-boy like the maniac from the volkswagen commericals! for the sake of argument, i will assume that the cart was reeling toward my car like a fat kid toward pie, and you were unable to intervene.
- while i appreciate the politeness of such a note, and while i concede that the breakneck speed of target shopping carts may outstrip your physical prowess, why did you leave the offending cart in the middle of the parking lot, still precariously close to my car? you maniac! you have seen the madness a rogue cart can inflict! put the demon-cart where it belongs!
on that note, off to bed. i leave you with three observations from the past two days-o-hell:
- i have a spider bite in my armpit. the uncomfortableness of the itchiness is only surpassed by the repulsion i feel when imagining a spider anywhere on my person and especially in my armpit. am i pigpen from the peanuts or something? i shower. i swear.
- while stopping at a bakery near katy, texas with some english people on the way to austin, i read the following notice taped to the door: “no pets allowed except the handicapped.” so so wrong. listen to your english teachers, folks. they’re good people.
- john travolta is so hot in urban cowboy! is this a sign that texas has seeped into my subconscious?