- Maybe I should just officially start writing my Sunday posts on Monday.
- Well, no, maybe not, since yesterday was obviously an exception being the Super Bowl and all, which means of course that I was too busy eating to write. Or do anything, for that matter, except wish I would stop eating.
- I realize this makes me lame and stereotypically female and a variety of unpleasant adjectives, but I still don’t understand football.
- No really. What the fuck are they doing out there?
- At any rate the half-time show was, well, a giant media spectacle as usual. There was some serious genre-mixing there. I particularly appreciated the sudden Vogue magazine advertisement, thrown in for what? 15 million dollars? God American consumerism makes me want to vomit. Though let’s be honest, I engage.
- I was so sick last week I wanted to pummel myself with a sledgehammer. As if the flu wasn’t enough, it morphed into a sinus AND inner ear infection, which, just in case y’all have never had the pleasure, feels similar to the sensation caused by 8 hours or so on a deep-sea fishing boat in the Pacific. Vertigo. Nausea. Sea sickness. No really. That’s what it feels like.
- It isn’t the best experience in the world. (Much like deep-sea fishing, I might add.)
- Speaking of good feelings, sometimes I look at my dog and just say “I’m sorry,” since he sits there all distraught and lost and sad as I race around ignoring him day after day, wishing I could cuddle with him and be a real pet owner.
- Oh dude. That’s sad. I’m a bad person. (But I called him over and he’s sitting next to me now, so I feel a little better.)
- Today Rocket said “Mama, sometimes I think some weird thoughts, but that’s okay because I don’t have to do what my brain says. It isn’t the boss of me. I AM THE BOSS OF MY BRAIN.”
I told him some people spend their whole lives never figuring that out.
And I was thinking that things like the SuperBowl advertisements are banking on hundreds of thousands of people not knowing that they are the bosses of their brains, so the day after watching the half-time show, they stand in the grocery store check-out line, and some way somehow, for some reason, hear their brains telling them to “BUY VOGUE MAGAZINE.” And without thought, they obey.
And I might too, were there not so many skinny ass women in it (telling me to buy more crap to make me feel, become, or look more like a skinny ass woman).
Anyway, here’s to a week free from sea-sickness, over-eating, and, with any luck, skinny ass women in Vogue.
On a ridiculously more happy note, here’s a picture of Georgia doing something unsafe, saying “Ta-DAH!”