Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Somebody pooped on Jason Bateman!

...Or, "A train of consciousness, courtesy of me, filled with links"

Really though. Somebody did.

Also, it is reassuring that the Victorians still had my sentiments about babies:



Unless they are Jason Bateman's babies. Hmm.


I am all Jezebel-ed out today. You should be, too, since (1) it is awesome, and (2) today is Wednesday.
Nobody likes Wednesday, and Funny Mean Friend has clearly explained why, over at Rockin' the Schoolhouse. More horribly, as she hypothesizes, she is entering the Wednesday of her academic career, and that is The Big Suck.* To highlight:

Wednesday is the day (or year) marked by the caffeinated beverage of your choice consumed in quantities large enough to single-handedly support a small business; Wednesday carries with it the realization that you only FELT productive on Tuesday ('cause you didn't do shit on Monday), and, therefore, Wednesday might never end. Wednesday is the day you realize you'd like some retail therapy (or any therapy at all) but you don't get paid until Friday
I am also in the Wednesday of my academic career- however, unlike the epicly long stretch of a phD program (Ack. See Nobody think about 8+ year long PhD programs. See Nobody collapse into a miserable shaking mess, numbed only by the drinking and the total denial), my Wednesday is more of a flex-time, halfway through a not-quite complete week- the Wednesday after a three-day weekend, when you wake up thinking "Oh hell. I've only been doing this 2 days? Feck."

On the flip side, my Wednesday is the Wednesday that comes before the Friday of Debilitating Student Loan Debt, and the Saturday of Being Owned by Your Crazy Friends/Relatives/Clients. It is the Wednesday before you voluntarily surrender to the minimum-security, no-expenses paid, insane asylum that is The Real World.**

Oh? Tortured metaphors aren't doing it for you? Leave me alone. It's Wednesday.

* Pardon my lack of eloquence on that one. You'll really need to get to reading over there, rather than relying on me to do FMF any justice.

** I'm not interested in this. Can I opt out?

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All rights reserved to my snotty and generally self-deprecating writing. And if your comments bother me, I'll delete them. That's right, pumpkin.
...How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
-- Emily Dickinson