Monday, December 31, 2007
-I’m thankful for finally throwing “Norman Rockwell” into google and browsing the Images results. I’d never really taken a tour of his work, and even on a screen less than an eighth the size of his average paintings, they were stunningly beautiful and so full of character. There were two paintings in particular that I am thankful for seeing. The first was of a man and a woman arguing; from afar it looked like they were kissing, and when I took a closer look and saw they were fighting I assumed that it was a spat and they’d make up soon. It’s the only painting to ever immediately generate an entire story in my head. The other was of a man (probably Rockwell himself) in a museum, looking at a Pollock painting. I’ve retitled this painting, “I Could Do That.”
-I’m thankful to have discovered Nat King Cole this year. The first time in my life I’ve listened to his voice, it shakes my soul. I’m particularly thankful for his version of “Glory, Glory be to the New Born King.” It made me a Christian… for three minutes, anyway.
-I’m thankful for picking up Michael Chabon The Yiddish Policeman’s Union. It’s one of the few contemporary books I picked up this year, and the language was so rich that I lost myself in the first few chapters for days. I’m so woefully ignorant of Jewish culture that his speculative vision of Alaska was a completely original fantasy world to me, and was lovely, as cold as he made it.
-I’m thankful for Ring of Honor and Pro Wrestling Guerilla, two small companies practicing an underappreciated art. I couldn’t have a more satisfying hobby from intellectual studies than cheering on men in underwear as they slap each other.
-I’m thankful for blackle.com, an alternative to google.com that, with its primarily black layout, conserves hundreds of thousands of watt-hours. If you don’t know what a watt-hour is, blackle it.
-I’m thankful to everyone who has ever held the door for anyone else. I’ve done it hundreds of times this year, but the two times other people did it for me were wonderfully pleasant surprises.
-I’m thankful I wasn’t killed when that tornado struck in the middle of my morning walk. Since I did most of the running, I guess I’m mostly thankful to myself for that one.
-Of course, I’m thankful to everyone who did me a kindness this year. I won’t embarrass them by listing them, but they know who they are. You can’t really thank somebody for putting a roof over your head one night or providing Thanksgiving dinner, after you’ve thanked people for holding doors. There is still quite a bit of good in this world. Thank goodness.-Fuck it, yes you can. Thanks Mom, Rene, grandpa and grandma (these two are, ironically, not related), Shelly, Jemma, Nick, Nat, Paddywack, Give the Dog a Bone (I had to), GregH, Cassie, Deirdre, Alec, Lunchbox, Teri, Lorenzo, Serin, Kathleen, Red, the funny looking lady at the plaza, Jack/Neal, Max, and that literary agent who provided absolutely no useful advice other than to use blogspot. And thanks to everyone else who’s slipped my mind as I try to post something before I run out the door so the realtor can show the house.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Charlie: That's alright, you go first.
Ghost: Really, you were here before me.
Charlie: Which is why it's kind of me to let you go first.
Ghost: Well you don't have to be a dick about it.
Charlie: You got a problem?
Ghost: You got a problem?
Charlie: What's wrong with you?
Ghost: You steppin'?
Charlie: I'll knock a mother****er out.
Ghost: Well then it's on!
Friday, December 28, 2007
With the swift thinking that ensures promotions, the mayor's aid put the body up for auction before the neighboring castles could figure out what a terrible thing on which they were bidding. This "deluxe luxury item" and "one of a kind memorabilia from Zinsen Fen's greatest adventure" sold for enough coin to keep the township prosperous for decades to come (though the misappropriation of those funds by the newly appointed senior mayor’s aid is another tale entirely).
The L'Argent Family who ultimately bought the dragon's corpse had so little use for it after the party for its unveiling at their new and wholly unnecessary art gallery (formerly a hollow mountain no one else was using that century) that they left it in the hands of the very gypsies that had shipped and handled it for them. Not that the gypsies had much of a better idea of how to use several million tons of dragon corpse than the crazy rich people who had bought it. They tried selling its scales for armor and good luck charms, but both of those opportunities dried up once everyone in the region owned at least ten dragon scales, and felt no safer or luckier than before (though they all felt a bit poorer, a bit cheated, and a bit angry that they hadn't asked for receipts).
The gypsy king had a stroke of genius to make a ship from the carcass. He'd always wanted a ship, in the hopes that his people could sail to new countries that needed shipping, handling and the purchase of faulty good luck charms. Dragons are naturally hollowed out upon death by the expulsion of their own fire, so Th'uuban's torso made a fine hull, and his wings made for an exceptional pair of sails - a truly great pair, since the H.M.S. Th'uuban set off on its maiden voyage to pick up the gypsy king's wife and immediately left the water and took to the air. They had the first flying ship, wholly on accident.
The gypsy king (who was deposed a week later in the wake of the tribe going global, and was replaced with a kinder, more sensible democratic body headed by his wife) took the ship across the continent, barging through crowds of clouds. The town that had auctioned Th'uuban's body shook its collective fist at the sky, and began doubting the value of paving their streets with gold the way they had. The L'Argent Family quickly summoned their lawyers, to see if they could sue for a piece of the profits. Everyone expected the gypsies to make a great profit off of this, and they did.
And that is the story of the first Overnight Air Delivery in the land.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Puck: But it's not really haunted?
Lo: No, it is. But I pay the ghosts reasonable rent, and I can play the stereo as loud as I like until 9:00.
-The Elderly are our Greatest Resource... of Mulch
-Respect the truth enough to leave it alone
-I have the right to arm bears (it's in the Constitution)
-Hitchhikers are like Drivethru for Cannibals
-Women are like paintings: pretty to look at, useless to listen to
-I have the right to throw this van into reverse (it's in the Constitution)
-Remake Directors, Not Movies
-I have the right to follow you home (it's in the Constitution)
-Love Conquers All, The Occupation is Harder
-DUEL Wasn't a Movie, it was a Warning
-My bear has the right to follow you home (it's in the Constitution)
-I only brake for imaginary Stop signs
-Legalize Pot to Solve the Budget Deficit
-It's not racist if you do it right, or if you're black
-My Other Car is Your Mom
-Has anyone seen my bear? (she stole my copy of the Constitution)
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
pages grow yellow
paint flecking on wood
quills scrape along paper
so fake they bleed
every sentence fragment so full
of itself and nothing else
doesn't have to rhyme
doesn't need rhythm
pomp and thunder fills a void
a void that calls itself the Universe
things said better
this is why
I hate poetry
Monday, December 24, 2007
But then there's Germany. In English anyway. You see in English it's "Germany," but in French it's "Allemagne," in Polish it's "Niemcy," and in that country itself they call it "Deutschland." These words don't look anything like each other. Their parts don't translate into the same original words. They mean the same country, but they're curiously different names.
The "deutsch" in "Deutschland" comes from the old German word for "people" or "folk." A nice word to name your homeland. It meant people were there. I'm a citizen of the unimaginatively-named United States, so I can appreciate it. The "Germans" still use that name for their country today. But what of the other names?
It turns out that "Germany" from the old Latin "Germania," a murky, generic word for tribes living in the region that we today call "Germany." Similarly, "Allemagne" is a mutation of the original name for a tribe that used to live in Germany, the Alamanni tribe. Say them out loud and you can tell that one was once the other. Speakers of such languages grew to identify the area by the tribe with which they were most familiar. Even "Niemcy" comes from an old Slavic word, "nemoy," a very rude term for people who didn't speak Slavic. That's a pretty rude way to name a country.
Actually, they're all pretty rude. The country is Deutschland. That's what they call themselves. My name is John. I'll understand if you localize it, say it with an accent or even substitute the local equivalent, but calling me "Theodore" makes you seem senile. Calling Deutchsland "Germany" or "Allemagne" boils down to countries lacking the respect to call it by its name, and rather going by the name of a tribe that lived there 2,300 years ago. It's been "Deutschland" long enough that we can call it that now. It's a frickin' world power, people.
Fenris: Not really, sir.
Abe: What's that?
Fenris: They have the second largest army in the world. Should they become too frightened, they will be much more likely to fire upon us, and the west coast, in which the two of us reside, cannot weather such a shelling.
Abe: You don't know what you're talking about, Fenny. I've always been smarter than you.
Fenris: Actually, that's just an illusion I've kept up in my tenure as your loyal man-servant. I'm quite a bit smarter than you, by at least thirty I.Q. points. My retirement portfolio is actually twice the size of yours now. I generally go around behind your back, fixing your mistakes, while stroking your ego, so as to make you as comfortable a master as you can be. It is my job. But please, don't antagonize the guys with nuclear weapons. It'd be a terrible career move, especially with your real estate holdings.
Abe: ... I'll tell you what. I'm going to call them and say this whole war-thing was a misunderstanding. And then I'm going watch as much reality TV as it takes to forget what you've just said.
Fenris: Jolly good decision, sir. Ranting about The Apprentice always cleanses your mind.
Abe: Fetch me a seltzer.
Fenris: Positively, sir.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
The first student said, "If there is a God, He must be a chemist."
The second student said, "No, God is chemistry."
The third student said, "No, God is what chemistry truly studies."
The fourth student said, "I thought we were supposed to read up to Chapter 6...."
-"Attention: due to technical difficulties, the 52 train is canceled. It will arrive in fifteen minutes."
-"Attention: Velvet Ray is needed at Club Acela."
-"The 72 train to Birmingham, New York and Brooklyn, Vermont is five minutes late. Please stand by for track assignment."
-"Have a good day, Franky."
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Bathroom Monologue: Men on the Long-Fabled Feminine Tradition of Greeting Cards, OR, To a Great Godnephew
-Run in on a bukkake with a seltzer bottle. If you don't know what that is, don't look it up.
-Tame a chair with a lion and a whip.
-Fend off a zombie invasion with nothing but the contents of a bakery.
-Run a Poland Spring franchise for twenty years, totally deadpan. I defy you to find a better use for a clown in full make-up than to show up at your house instead of a union guy every time you run out of water.
-Explain the metaphysical aspects of Smashmouth's "Tubthumping" as part of an Oxford lecture series.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Creed was kicked out of his house at thirteen for "causing more trouble than you're worth," as his father put it. Felix's mother, who was the rare sort of guidance councilor who might have helped Creed had they met more than once, died that same year. Felix's father did his best, but Felix still ran away from home three years later. Three years apart, the two youths followed almost identical paths down the Mississippi river. Their nearly identical paths leant them almost identical tastes for spicy foods, appreciations for jazz, and talents for finding somewhere safe to sleep. The trek also introduced Felix to a wide array of very tall men; some of them perverted, one whom hurt him badly, and one lanky paraplegic whose tenderness and endless supply of dirty Bible jokes began to turn Felix around on his phobia. This last gentleman, Mr. Corksworth, got Felix into a halfway house. There, the youth learned of a talent of gymnastics that would come to odd use later. Creed also visited this halfway house. He slept in the alley outside Felix's window one night. He ate breakfast there the next morning. He looked a little too "big, mean and gangly," for these parts, or so he overheard two girls commenting. So he left, coincidentally just as Felix came downstairs.
All Creed was any good at was picking fights. He spared the girls, because he only enjoyed hitting men. It'd started when he fought other boys for leftover beans or squatting privileges. Then it matured, if such tendencies can be said to mature, to amateur boxing and fighting in private clubs, where only underage performers were wanted, and the winner always lost a little more than the loser by the end of the night. By the end of the year, this kind of life drained the desire to hurt people right out of Creed. It was only by luck that he fell out of such circles, and into the circuits of the smallest of small-time pro-wrestling. Hitting people - for fake - but making it look real, for pathetically small crowds. They weren't pathetic to him, though; to him, they were intimate, like a gathering of friends. These crowds, sometimes only ten people, bought into his fake fighting, his absurd performance - something he thought only friends could do, and that made each crowd the closest thing he had to friends in his life. In this queer little art it was all about character, about passion, and about appearance. For a guy on that level, Creed was about the biggest and ugliest bad guy those companies ever saw, even before he turned 18. And when he turned 18, they could actually pay him over the table if he wanted (not that he ever did).
At the same time, an amazingly athletic, wiry young man named Felix Jester came along the professional wrestling independents. He was popular for sympathetically countering bigger opponents' offense with deft acrobatics, like he'd trained in gymnastics or something. He was so nimble that no matter how badly an opponent bent or stretched his limbs, he would look bored instead of in pain. The crowds loved it, and had no idea that Felix, their favorite hero, was living out of a used car as he traveled from show to show. The fans had no idea their most hated villain, Killer Creed, also lived out of a used car. Even the writers of the wrestling shows had no idea that these two cars were parked next to one another outside the arena, the night before the a first-time-ever match: Killer Creed VS Felix Jester. Felix was trying to sleep, while Creed was getting his jazz on with the new CD player attachment for his stereo that he could finally afford now on layaway. Felix rolled up his window, waved to get the guy to shut that crap off, before giving up, since Louis Armstrong was one of his favorites, too. He wound up tapping on Creed's window to ask if he would crank it up. They spent most of the night talking to each other from the front seats of two of the most beat-up automobiles in the state, their doors open, almost touching. It was 3:00 AM before one figured out the other was wrestling, and 4:00 AM before the other figured out this one was wrestling him. The next day they put on a Hell of a match, an especially impressive match for two guys who had never met before. Under the guise of characters they feuded for years, but they were friends and traveling partners on the road long after.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
-After my third reading of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, realizing some of his plots had practical applications in my school and neighborhood.
-After realizing matches and bug spray might be boring separately, but...
-After that first accidental swear in front of Grandma.
-After the doctor fled the state, leaving me to learn I'd long since been incurable and inoperable.
-After I wore those jeans to school, the ones with the logo I tried to show off, that nobody noticed.
-After I realized that a close friend of two years was gay, and had been hitting on me all along.
-After that disturbed boy tried to strangle me to death in front of a laughing crowd.
-After two professors turned me down for classes without talking to me about my submissions, and a third talked down about every writer I liked, forcing the realization that there is someone in power who vehemently hates every little thing you could possibly like, no matter how trivial to their existence, or how important they are to yours.
-After I told that to one of my professors.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
It's a baseball diamond. The lights are solar powered, and with the flick of a switch can go from fluorescent to solar reproductive light. In the middle of any inning, they can reduce vampires to ash - ash that, if you believe the local stories, is used as the dust on the playing field.
The sprinklers, like every sprinkler in town, draw water from the local river, which runs behind the local church. The priest blesses it every morning, so the grass is slick with holy water.
The concrete of the dugouts is fifty feet deep, an unnecessary depth for such a construction. The reason? Immortals. You can't kill an immortal, but you can throw him in a pit and fill it with concrete. So if you believe the stories, there are some fifty immortal warriors under the stands, trapped forever in a soundless, airless, dark prison.
Two independent sources verified that the diamond is perfectly feng shui against evil magic, and if you look under the bases and benches, you'll find a lot of brand symbols for companies you've never heard of. That's because they aren't real companies, though their symbols are real - real holy symbols that nullify both black and white magic, rendering even the strongest magicians powerless if they're even within shouting distance of the ballpark. It keeps the neighboring high school safe (you wouldn't believe the anti-sasquatch stuff they've got in the chemistry lab). The baseball field is one of the town's most storied features, and one of the reasons there's never been a monster under a single bed.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Long after he was freed he bypassed the expensive practice of buying master-make weapons and just picking up whatever was available: a broken claymore, a fallen branch, a bow no one in Ulysses' house could string but that still really stung if he smacked you in the eye with it. He dueled one master of the katana by dual-wielding a salad fork and a really big rock.
His favorite weapon was a giant's speartip. It was five or six foote long, very thick and hard, a dwarf-make thing. It was flat and triangular, with a jagged point and a blade on either edge. About a foote thick, he could hide behind it when he was showered with arrows, doubling as a shield. He held it by the butt, the tab of metal below the spearhead where a giant would insert a shaft. Being human-sized, he never bought a shaft. He wielded it like a big, ornery horsekiller, though he applied it in less orthodox fashion, too, such as riding it like a sled down a hill into the enemy cavalry.
He only graduated to using fine, honorable weapons when his friends started to be embarrassed by his antics, and got him one for his birthday. Being a former slave, he didn't have a birthday, but they made one up as an excuse to make him throw that damned thing away.
-Intro to Cloud Gazing
-Traditional Bread Crumb Reading
-Egg-Nog Smithery (belt sanders required; on sale in bookstore)
-Advanced Tree Re-Fueling
-Non-Linear Elephant Discovery (twenty hours lab/field-work required)
-Intermediate Conversational Binary
-Honors Seminar in Paper Shakespeare Wiped His Ass With One Time Some Scholars Say
What? It's about a child.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
-“This is a smart comedy,” now means, “It isn’t funny.”
-“Fiery” has always meant, “bitchy.”
-“Upcoming bio-pic” means, “The screenwriter, director and producers were thoroughly out of ideas, so they plagiarized the life of this other person who had some left.”
-“Thrillride” means, “You can take your desensitized children to this without worrying that they’ll be confused by the plot.”
-“Sexy” now means, “There’s no way in Hell you’ll see sex in this movie, but we guarantee the wardrobe people are making her bustier a size too small.”
-“Never since [anything],” or “The best [anything] since [anything],” both probably mean, “We’re taking massive bribes from the studio.”
-“A spirited performance,” means, “She didn’t graduate from acting school.”
-“For anyone who has ever [anything]” really means, “Good afternoon, Fly. Come into my parlor.”
-“From the [anyone] who brought you [anything]” means, “This guy is coasting on his reputation.”
-“Academy Award Winner,” means, “Guaranteed to disappoint this time.”
Monday, December 10, 2007
But Yuseff was unsatisfied. Sure, he had a platinum-plated wrist protector that kept his gold watch from chaffing, and a road no one else could drive on, but he didn't have enough. Consumer culture was too small for him. He lost sleep and spent an increasing amount of time away from his wife and kids trying to create something worth having.
One night, inspiration struck. A map. The world's first real map. Not a flat one, not a globe, not one that made Greenland look accurate in size, nor even one of those adjusting zigzag maps in the background of all the movies about the White House or U.N. Building. A map of total accuracy. A map that would have every coastline accurate to the kilometer, every building represented, and a key that read "1 Mile equals 1 Mile." That would show Capitalism how it was done!
Immediately he hired thousands of scientists who were very relieved to be employed after all that time in college with their parents asking what they would do with their lives. They experimented on how to get paper to fold extra times, on refractive light and holographic technology, and spent an awful lot of time surveying. Meanwhile, Yuseff handled the logistical end, trying to secure a place for his map. He wanted to try the moon, but his close advisors apologetically informed him that it was smaller than the earth, and even with cutting edge paper-folding technology, the map would probably knock the moon out of orbit. He almost licensed the sun for storage space, but it was informed that it was a poor locale, even if it was well-lit, and that if he tried to claim property on the sun, the Russians would probably declare war. And then, while he was filing the patents, he heard a nasty rumor and almost sued Google Earth for trying to steal his idea.
Early one morning he got a call from his wife. She was worried about their youngest daughter, Anita. The girl had been acting strangely for months, had been coming home covered in white paint, and wasn't playing with the other children. Yuseff begrudgingly cancelled his afternoon meetings and flew home to meet his daughter, who ran into his arms, her hands and face smudged with white paint. Yuseff asked her what this was all about and what was wrong with her, but her first reply was only to point at an industrial paint machine, usually applied for making lines on football fields. Before he could ask further, she dragged him to the roof of the mansion, where a telescope was fixed. After she threatened to cry if he didn't humor her, he looked through. Every so often in the distance of all four directions were large, white line segments, all perhaps fifty feet across, each row emanating from their property.
Yuseff gave his daughter a flabbergasted look, to which she responded, "One Mile equals One Mile!"
He blinked, looked through the telescope one more time, turned back to her, and hugged her to his side, saying, "Well, that'll do."
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Lo: Oh, our story is way better than that. Even if you don't like the way things develop, we get fightscenes for every couple of plot points. That makes up for any literary faults.
Puck: Oh yeah, this, this, this is great! I was talking about, you know... other stories. Of course.
Lo: Of course. And what's a movie?
Bathroom Monologue: (b th r m m n -lôg , -l g ) OR (it would have looked a lot more clever if the site could handle Greek letters)
2. (v) An attempt for a cheap laugh.
3. (v) A desperate cry for help.
4. (n) The philosophical artifice of an individual not nearly so worldly as he ought to be, but considerably more worldly than was good for his mental health.
5. "Well, when I was at college I spent an unreasonable amount of time researching, reading and writing papers for my professors. I went there to study composing fiction, but was exclusively writing non-fiction essays, and I feared that I would lose my personal creative drive, that thing that makes writers write without the commands of an academic setting, since the commands of an academic setting don't exist in the money-making, and hence, bill-paying and life-affirming real world. So whenever I got up to go to the bathroom, I would try to improvise a narrative. Sometimes I thought they were funny, and would type them up into IM's for friends when I got back to the computer. Sometimes my friends would say they were funny, which is a service friends provide to artists to keep them from committing suicide too early in life. Then one friend in particular pointed me to a place to catalog them. I don't even know why I-- is that tape recorder on?"
Saturday, December 8, 2007
James Vanderhuge: MONOLOGUE
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Pope will wake up with a boner for the Dalai Lama. He who holds the Oxford Chair for the Public Understanding of Science will invite a Jewish theologian to sit in his lap, and the Jewish theologian will invite the Prime Minister of Palestine to tag along. White Pride marchers and black gangster rappers, Mormons and Evangelicals, antitheists and Christian scientists will be dying to hop into bed with each other. Folks with stricter morals won’t succumb to lust, but will instead feel the burning desire for long walks and handholding with people they previously found disgusting. Prudes will timidly invite strippers down from their poles to share a drink (of ginger ale – they’re only human). Previously heterosexual men will fall for other previously heterosexual men, wherever humbling is warranted. Dictators will fall for the lowest classes, not in the fashion they’ve lied about doing, but in a terribly polygamist fashion that makes them wish all the fieldworkers could move into the mansion. The rich will fall in love with the poor, and not in the meager philanthropic sense where a billionaire gives half his money to a charity, but the kind that gets the rich to move into the ghettos, because the only way the poorest, most run-down parts of the country will improve is if the empowered actually move into them, and have to see and deal with it all the time. Secularists will not only respect non-secularists as seekers of meaning, but as really cute people they could spend the rest of their lives with (the irony is they were going to do that anyway, but under the spell, they’ll do it from the same living room). Non-secularists will have the same experience, while wearing something different around their necks (perhaps a locket with a cross on the outside and a picture of your Hispanic transvestite skeptic girlboyfriend on the inside). Discussions over who can display what where will go much differently when they’re always with a girlfriend toeing the grass and whispering, “But can’t we please…?” Under the peace of love, arguments over whose religion is true and and the veracity of morals in nihilism will feel less like rewriting the world and more like doing the Sunday sudoku. All this, because of blind love. Blind love – not love that blinds, because love doesn’t blind; it opens the eyes to new spectrums that are often prettier or downright more important than what we’re normally staring at. With that vision, with an adoration and affection too deep for anyone to pull himself from and take advantage of, the only thing anyone in the world would have to change will be his underwear. And that’s worth a prayer, whether or not anyone is listening.
-You've been told at least five times in the last year that you have a "great maniacal laugh."
-You have to play evil theme music just to walk from your computer to the bathroom. And you will hold it until you find the right song.
-You find yourself inexplicably excited and/or aroused whenever Wonder Woman is losing a fight.
-When you hear "internet piracy," you think of galleons and cannons laying siege to Microsoft headquarters.
-When you hear "illegal aliens," you think of space ships, and your only worry is that they won't align with you.
-When you hear "World Series," you think of setting every sovereign nation in the world on fire in beautiful succession.
-You've lost more than one hundred nights of sleep in your life planning intricate plots that you know you'll never carry out and/or know can't possibly work.
-You cut yourself, but you imagine it's other people doing it, and the act gives you a rush, particularly because you spent the entire ordeal plotting revenge against your fictitious tormentor.
-You think hundreds or thousands or hundreds of thousands of people read your blog, website, web comic, livejournal or mywasteofspace than actually join or post comments. You simply have no idea why they don't show up on the hit counter or post those comments in support of your brilliant work. Your best guess is that they're intimidated.
-You know all the countries that don't have a Bill of Rights, and can list them off the top of your head, alphabetically or by population. And you have some great ideas you'd like to share with their heads of state.
You also might ask why I'm celebrating my ninety-ninth Bathroom Monologue when I'm not even at seventy-five yet. Well that's... stop judging me!