the BRUTAL, UGLY truth of my FABULOUS, BEAUTIFUL life.
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2:49 p.m. + 2003-07-25 = the butchers, a baker? and donna-fuckin'-harraway, in no particular order.
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nothing says "you're fucked" like a failed attempt at consolidation of outstanding debts at your local,[normally] helpful and understanding bank. this has brought me to smuggle a sixer of caramel bock into the library's computer room. drinking at near-3 in the afternoon...in the library... shameful, simply shameful. wish i'd brought an ashtray, but that's neither here nor there.
have also felt compelled to "express interest" in the history of consciousness graduate program at UC-Davis (or is it Santa Cruz? whichever.) Angela Davis, yay. theresa de lauretis, mmkay. donna harraway, ahem... excuse me, what i meant to say was, donna-FUCKIN'!-harraway. my god. why? why? OH WHY would i purposely subject myself to her insanity?
in great news, i think i'm a shoe-in as weekend baker and deli cook at the co-op. and if not, then i'll be the fry cook at Ooodles (far less glamourous and not as cozy to my food philosophies as the co-op, but it'd still be fun since no matter how elitist i am, i'm still part-redneck, greasyspoon patron).
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comments?? --->[thisaway]--->[[looks to me as though there are...]]---> 0 repercussions thus far
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[prologue] *** [epilogue] ***[plottwist!]
[[erstwhile]] ***** [[forthwith]]
