Two roaches last night. Two. And I only found the second because finding the first made me skitchy, so I went on a roach-hunting mish around the house. I was just saying to myself “Silly Smokey, lightning doesn’t strike twice, surely finding the first roach guarantees us immunity for the rest of the night” when I saw the second, snivelling its weedy way over the door. I think I will move to Antarctica. They don’t have roaches there… right? What if they did? That would be awful. I’d have to make friends with them to combat seasonal depression and loneliness, and then just as I’d grown fond of their roachy ways my pet penguin would eat them and I’d throw myself off a crevasse. You know what’d make a good opera, though? A morality tale about a girl who bought from a wizened old woman a roachometer, which told her how many roaches there were in her house at any time, but not precisely where; and how instead of giving her peace of mind, it ended with her scrabbling frantically through the cupboards each night hunting for the elusive beasties, until she… I dunno. It’s an opera. Stabbed herself, probably. Sondheim, praps? I’d watch it.
Helpdesk Man and I went Christmas shopping last night. It was surprisingly unbusy in town and moderately enjoyable, except that a creepy girl in Whitcoull’s sidled up to me as I was perusing the Twilight parody and started talking smack about Twilight fans. Not that I have anything against that per se, but how did she know I wasn’t one? I could’ve been going to buy a whole boxed set for all she knew. Either she just recognised my innate classiness (you know, by the fact that I was sniggering in the aisle over a Twilight parody), or she did not care how well she represented the store. Which is like… treason. I’m shocked.
I’d like to end this post with a shoutout to Scully, an admirable if fictional woman I admire greatly. Scully, even when tied spreadeagled to a bed with a parasitic organism believed by a cult to be the second coming of Christ inserted into your spine, you refuse to accept the role of victim, keep your wits about you and scream only when it is strategically sensible to do so. And later, when you insist on having the thing cut out from your neck without anaesthesia, I can only salute you in awe. You also look good in boxy jackets, although part of me missing the shapeless trench coats you used to wear; and even though I know it was largely to disguise your Season One pregnancy, I preferred to think of it as sticking it to the man in some ill-defined anti-fashion-industry sense. Your maternal instincts are present without being gushy; your hair, though helmety, is nevertheless healthy-looking and not over-processed; and although your metaphysics leave something to be desired, you have a stunning draw and an impeccable aim.
It shouldn’t have taken you that many seasons to accept that aliens are real, though. Come on.
nat Says:
Miriam Says: