Monday, April 22, 2013

Just One Misheard Word

Mulder: Scully, there's, um, there's something I haven't told you, either and I hope you uh forgive me and understand why I would've kept it from you.

Scully: What?

Mulder: During my investigation into your illness, I found out the reason why you were left barren ("Barren," Mulder? Harsh): your vulva were taken from you and stored in a government lab.

Scully: What!

What? How did she NOT know her vulva was missing! Dear Lord, the horror. What's there in its place? Ointment won't cure this, ma'am!

I'm actually a fan of late-season X-Files, too (damnit); Doggert gets a bad rap. But this seemed like too much, like if Dana Scully's vulva has really--and literally--been sitting on a government shelf somewhere all this time, we are all out of hope, and at the very least I'm going to have to stop watching this late-season X-Files crap.

One rewind later, I discovered it was her ova that had been taken.

For some reason, of the two, that seems less awful.
(Echoes of: What's there in its place?)

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Oh, Is That What We're Calling Them Now?

News says: "The FBI gave no details of their identities or origin, naming them only as Suspect One and Suspect Two."

News means: They're white.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

An Interesting Time, At Least

In today's "Sometimes I feel sorry for friends who move here," you give your friend the number of your usual normal car service but the driver tonight is alas anything but, sporting a rubber chicken on the passenger seat & making weird barn animal noises.

I'm becoming downright nostalgic thinking about the gentleman driver from the service who was a dead ringer for Dracula yet courtly, in his way. It distracts from images of dumpsters, desolate dead-cell-phone spots in Queens & my friend, limbs, until I hear that she has made it home to Astoria and he did have manners enough to wait for her to get in. I was pushing for a shot of the rubber chicken; don't think one was taken.

The driver did, breaking reports inform me, shout out "Chicken! Chicken! Yellow chicken!" at the yellow cabs, who, yeah, deserve it, going by the brusque logic that is vintage caveman sophisticate gotham, with "sophisticate" often only referring to the price tag these daze (wacka wacka). Well, I often say to friends I feel sorry for in this scenario, friends who have not grown up around this particular breed of mad wildness (and would not, as I probably would, ask if the rubber chicken symbolized his opposition to yellow cabs or ?), don't say I didn't at least help show you an interesting time.

Reasons Not to Do My Taxes, April 12—er, 13

1. My arms hurt.
(Hurts to write!)
(Hurts to type!)
2. It’s distracting me from typing up this list.
3. HazeAblaze is blind.
4. HazeAblaze was permanently and totally disabled in 2012.
5. I’m in a bad mood.
6. I’m in a good mood.
7. Are you kidding me—corporations pay what, now?
8. My square footage calculation method could be a bit wacky.
9. Corporations pay what, now?
10. I’m exhausted.
11. I drank too much coffee.
14. Part of the reason I’m poor: poor allocations of my tax dollars since…forever.
15. NYS does not need this much more of my money. (The months tick down to August...27 years, where's my payout?)
16. This has all been a hallucination...
17. I think.

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

I Give Up.

Where do they get their certainty?

Monday, April 08, 2013

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Via a series of text messages I received Saturday, the first one being:

Mommy ur daughter got my heart

I knew it was a wrong, though local, number when I saw the word "Mommy," a word that creeps me out when used by anyone over the age of, oh, 11 or so. Also, I don't have a daughter. Or any offspring I'm aware of.

This initial message was immediately followed by:
I like lea shes good girl nd that's wat I need she jus think ima hurt her like the rest

The name in question was close enough to my own first name that I'll admit I felt a bit defensive at this point, after some more months of dating, or trying to again, because woo, do I live in the land of 1,000 dodged bullets, baby. In this land, there are divorced friends of both genders bemoaning in every conversation how much being single, i.e., my life, sucks, mixed message men, various men complaining about how all women are gold diggers despite, by and large, what a canard that is, not to mention the presence of at least one lady (ahem) who isn't, men who, granted, are probably choosing me as their women-are-terrible sounding board because turns out that, oops, I fall into the category of undesirable for them and so I am therefore eligible to be regaled with invisible-making sentiments, men who vanish after a handful of emails, i.e., when it'd be a good time to meet in real life, men who then reappear months later, men who ask me out and don't follow through, why do they even keep asking, why do they think I don't know they don't follow through, men who mistake setting a date and time to get together for a binding commitment, men pointing out things like Janis Joplin being "ugly," this one not shaving her pubic hair the "right" way--hey, fella, it's called pubic hair, not public hair--and etc., tedium, still can't believe this stuff, can you even try to find the fun, gen x-ers, sheesh, sigh, etc.

She is my heart.

So of course you're texting this to...someone. Get off the phone and buy her a card, how 'bout...no?

Finally, hours later: Howz ur day goin sofar mommy inlaw

Mommy inlaw? Yikes. It was at this point that I ended this particular interaction, or tried to, entertaining as it was, by pointing out I have no idea who any of the people in question are.

This leaa mother.
Then: This Damien mommy jus checkn up on u maken sure my mother inlaw is ok.

Family plan, indeed.

Happy to be free,
HazeAblaze