Day 6 of Moose Can No Longer Blog…
Posted by Moose on June 20th, 2006. Filed under: My Brain Needs a Drink.…Without Sounding Like a Puny, Ineloquent, Ineffectual Weasel With Bad Breath and Nothing To Say:
Despair is setting in. I don’t think “ineloquent” was the right word to use there (it may not even be a word), but I am helpless to think of a better one. I am helpless even to swing my chair around to check the dictionary. Because what would be the point? It would only prove that “ineloquent” is not, in fact, a word and I would have to expend precious energy being embarrassed that I used a nonexistent word. Besides, bloggers in the depths of despair don’t check dictionaries.
Reading other blogs, I laugh, I cry, I marvel at their sophisticated and original sentence structure. Then I curl up in a small, dank corner and pray for death. But death isn’t really a satisfactory solution to this problem. I’m not really too keen on the idea of my still relatively cute self rotting below ground. It might be nice to fly above the earth as ashes scattered from a plane, but my imperfect understanding of death is that you’re not actually present to enjoy the descent. You’re either desperately trying to figure out how to play the damn gold harp the fruity dude in the white robe handed you while keeping your new wings from flapping feathers into your mouth or sitting in a waiting room needing to pee or feeling rather uncomfortably warm after being informed that the air conditioner hasn’t really worked since 1153 AD and the repairman may take another 1500 years.
Death is probably not the answer.
Sadly, it’s not just the blogging that is making me want to cry the hot, salty tears of a unicorn that’s just been told it’s a cliche and that purple really isn’t a good color for glorified horses. It’s also the cooking.
Dear god in heaven with the fruity guys in robes, the cooking. I made the worst birthday dinner ever last night. Ever. If Brutus whipped up Caesar a little birthday treat, this is what it would have been. Complete with soggy salad (caesar, of course), cold mashed potatoes, underdone fried chicken and grainy, inedible creme brulee. It was embarrassing. I am attempting not to get discouraged. By “discouraged,” I mean “taking the blow torch that scorched the creme brulee and setting all my cookbooks on fire and dancing naked* around them as they burn.” Before heading out for a nice meal at Boulevard complete with perfect, succulent creme brulee.
*I’m lying about the naked part. I’m not too fond of sparks on bare skin. I’m a wimp. You can say it.
The bright spot in my life? My new desk. The heartfelt glee I enjoyed after acquiring my desk leads me to believe that I need more of a life. But, the desk. It’s so pretty. So desk-like. So perfect for sitting primly and getting Things Done. It was worth the two and a half hours it took to assemble it, the six times I had to beg for help, the three times I put in the drawers wrong. You were worth it, desk.
I will go home and stroke my desk. Because my desk is going to solve all my problems, and it will be especially eager to please me after a little stroking. On the desk I will compose terrifying tomes, witty essays and esoteric texts. Then I will find a new recipe for creme brulee and I will brulee the brothertrucking creme out of it.
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