“You two can keep squabbling over whether that’s a head or a tail.
All I know is, it’s two dollars, and a mint gum costs that much, and that’s just what I’m going to hop over and buy because you’ve been arguing so long, my mouth’s gone stale from disuse.”
“Come on,” she said, staring dispassionately at my laptop screen.
A pop-up ad had decided that now was the best time to inflict its superlatives upon me, but she didn’t know that.
“What?” I said, dishing out a beat rivalling a drum machine as I clicked the invisible cross in vain.
“You can do better than that. You’re better than a inspirational quote tells you you are”, she said, walking away.
“Are YOU a college student feeling dead inside? Is YOUR 90’s website failing?? Are YOU looking for a bartender’s mixing bottle?? CLICK HERE to find the perfect solution to your life’s problems!!”
“Google, what’s this?”
“I dunno miss, it’s based on your search history.”
“And who told you you could have that?”
“Oh look dear, the cross button’s moved to the bottom left corner now.”
My search history is pretty weird and I’d like to be a fly on the wall during the thought process of whatever algorithm is trying to profile me. Bartender’s mixing bottle, magician’s hat, 90’s websites, dead-looking college students and cat’s feet are genuine searches indexed in my history now. I blame my comics and the fact that I cannot draw. Who knows what evil cat machinery Google will be trying to sell me next?
There’s going to be a generation of kids to come who are going to hear the word ‘eco’ and never think it means “ecosystem” or “ecology” or even “economics”. The first thing they’re going to think is “eco-friendly”, and it’ll completely be our fault.
You know, when I’d said you would probably never be rid of my endless stream of excited photography, I wasn’t kidding around. The very first of the snow showers has come and gone, and I’ve been busy.
(Clogging up your reader feeds, that is,)
Feast your eyes on this!
My friend said this seemed to belong in a British drama, for some reason. Do you see that happening? Perhaps someone having run and skid across this snow, slipping away from Scotland Yard to hide away in an old, dilapidated Victorian building with carillon bells ringing from a big tower window (Yup, it is actually called a carillon, and I just learned that this month. I can’t just have me going back to plain ol’ ‘church bells’. How bourgeois) as the guy freezes and shakes simultaneously, bells intensifying as the camera whips back and forth from a shot of the panicked man to a troop stained in the colours of the old stained glass windows as we all hold in a breath and wait.
Then it turns out his footprints in the snow practically lead Scotland Yard up to him and we get a very close look at a drop of sweat on our protagonist’s nose (yep, he sure cleaned it out this morning!) before the director decides we deserve to wait another week to know how that ends up.
In fact, it’s quite a European cross-country chase scene. Except they’d probably kick me out of uni for calling that building old. It’s neo-gothic, have some taste.
I don’t know, it’s late, I’m tired I’m generous, I’ll let you come up with your own story for this one; I just get to enjoy this good looking walk home.
If you’d like to know how the night ended, it was with my mother laughing and saying that I “can’t even pull off a skirt right”. (I won’t argue. It’s only my third time wearing one.)
My tux plans went for a toss when, after having gotten my pants ready, mum and I realised that we don’t have the shirt and coat to go above it.
Yep, it took us a week to discover that loophole.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe.
So I ended up trudging along in a skirt. Figures.
Apart from that, it was as every Farewell should be—where you rediscover that you absolutely can’t dance, and that there are only a few varieties in this department: those who are bad at dancing, those who are exceptional at dancing bad, and those who can give you an illusion of a good dance. And you realise no one cares. And you realise why the stationery industry isn’t dead, when ink and thoughts flow freer than non-existent wine—yearbook signing!
Basically, awesome stuff.
(I hear laughter in the background. Is that a high-pitched Chemistry high on helium? Come on, it’s 1:30 AM!)