From Roman Numeral Two! Top Ten Lists from 'Late Night with David Letterman':
Top Ten Least Exciting Superpowers for Comic Book Superheroes
10. Super spelling
9. Lightning-fast mood swings
8. Really bendy thumb
7. Unusually natural smile when posing for photographs
6. Ability to calm jittery squirrels
5. Power to shake exactly two aspirin out of a bottle
4. Ability to get tickets to Goodwill Games
3. Power to score with other superheroes' wives
2. Ability to communicate with corn
1. Magnetic colon
From 1,0001 Dreams:
Spaghetti is a rich erotic symbol evoking male or female genitals or pubic hair. Dreamers may wallow in a tub of pasta or discover that their long hair has turned into spaghetti. Such dreams may express a need to satisfy the demands of the libido.
That was not intentional humor, by the way.
From Bad Press: The Worst Critical Reviews Ever!:
It may be that this autobiography is set down in sincerity, frankness, and simple effort. It may be, too, that the Statue of Liberty is situated in Lake Ontario. -- Dorothy Parker on Aimee Semple McPherson
Meanwhile, I'm still reading Patricia Cornwell. The more I read her writing, the more I loathe it--her exposition is terrible, her characters speak without contractions, her heroine is obnoxious--but I can't stop buying her books. Reading her is like chewing sugarless bubble gum with vicious determination. I think that Bad Press book is catching. And why do all these titles have exclamation points?
I forgot to mention that if anyone wants any of the song files from my last post, just let me know and I can upload them from work. I think some of them are even MP3s.
I have postmenstrual stress again. Or really, really early premenstrual. I am making a hit list of bus passengers, and every item of clothing in Macy's appalls me. I used to think that it was a spiteful, unified campaign of designers to create the worst possible fashions for larger-sized women. But now that I'm shopping in the standard women's department, I realize it's all women everywhere who are victimized by the fashion industry. The hot-pink of death, flower patterns like 70s upholstery, random appliqués scraped from exploded piñatas--everything seemingly designed for sixty-year-old matrons with bad eyesight. In a desperate recoil from this, almost every shirt I own is black.
I'm tired and want to do nothing. No laundry, no bills. But I lie--I want to write, but the words run and hide from me like centipedes scurrying under cupboards. As for reading fan-fiction, there's a weird thing going on where I've bookmarked stories I know I'll love, but I can't bring myself to open them up; I think I'm saving them for when I'm in a better mood.
If I had a cat I'd be making little creaky noises at it and chasing it around the apartment right now, and when I caught it I'd scrub my fingers into its ruff and say things like, "Brrt brrt brrt, who's a little monster?"
Oh, yeah. The midthirties of the SWF, when every thwarted maternal instinct turns to kittens.