Karim: crazy french with their apostrophes!
Karim: the apostrophe is inherently french
Karim: the way it floats up there
Karim: all aloof
Karim: it’s definitely the snootiest of the grammatical devices
Ben: “Look, I’m standing in for some letters, but I don’t want to be here.”
Karim: “i’m only here because i’ve been deemed superior to several of you line-touching letters”
Ben: “If it were up to me, the whole end of this word wouldn’t be pronounced at all.”
Karim: “i’m having a party, but don’t bother coming. only quotation marks has been invited”
Ben: hahaha
Ben: “And I’m making them bring me presents.”
Karim: yeah
Karim: all the other punctuation thinks apostrophe is a real colonhole
Ben: hio!
Ben: You really play to my linguaphile.
Karim: this conversation is worth posting in a blog somewhere
I used to be quite the MySpace fiend, but somewhere amidst the countless failed log-ins and endless bulletin surveys, I fell out of love with everyone’s [current] favorite networking site. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but one day I just realized there was simply no point in franatically checking peoples’ new pictures while waiting on the edge of my seat for my inbox to load in a seperate page to see if that message I sent had been read yet. It just– well, it just didn’t interest me anymore.
All the same, I find myself checking into the site every now and again when there’s some down time in my day, but recently I’ve noticed a marked shift in my focus. Specifically, I can’t get over the amazingly persistent adverts that insist I am a lonely single who hasn’t taken advantage of the fact that the Internet is populated by millions of emaciated and scantily-clad girls (who knew?!?!). Of these advertisments, the campaign for True is perhaps the most pervasive, but somehow what I think is meant to be the desired effect on the reader (a sense of longing and sexual anticipation) is lost on me. Let’s review:
This is a cowgirl, apparently; however, I can’t help but question the effectiveness of torn wife-beater shirts while wrangling farm animals. Furthermore, how did the shirt get to this level of disrepeair? What, did she drop her clothes in front of a tractor? Quite honestly, this girl is about one celery-stick-lunch away from sprouting a protective fuzz and being featured in a Christian Children Fund commercial. Her only hope then will be if air-brushes are effective against tsetse flies. Moving on…
Cowgirl was pissed when this girl took her shirt (and promptly collapsed from exertion during the scuffle). It’s important to note that this particular girl was bred as a miniture. She marks a new type of “toy people” that, on average, are about the same volume as everyday sporting equipment. Her owners had decided to take her out for some exercise and snapped this picture of a scoliostic posture resulting from a common genetic maladie in most show breeds. Also, of note, the number of sexy singles is climbing at an incredible rate. For pennies a day, you can adopt one of your very own!
I, uh… I just don’t get it. And that’s the truth.
Today, within the span of a half hour, I went from being too cool to be able to go to my second job (cause I had plans, like a cool person should), to having to run a little late to work (when the plans got cancelled, but something less involved presented itself as an option), to getting to work about 30 minutes early… Yeah…
So, in the spirit of anti-climaxes, this post is over… Now!
Today started as a completely worthless day off. I woke up early in the hopes that it would drive me to do something interesting, but I just ended up watching Al Roker pretend to be entertaining until I felt motivated enough to go for a run. Seven miles later, I had burned more calories than I had expected to burn (thank you Nike+ for providing yet more ways for me to scrutinize my workouts), and my left quad started aching from all the squat thrusts I did the other day. Then I ate some egg whites.
Bland right? I mean, that’s pretty uneventful posting material even by LiveJournal standards! I wrestled with this issue myself, earlier today, before deciding that I needed some spice…
Enter The Mustard Seed. I went with my (without doubt) best shopping partner, armed with a duffel tightly packed with natty clothes, in hopes of finding a tangy Dijon. What I found was French’s, which is to say yellow, kind of crusted, but just the right amount of salty.
At The Mustard Seed, you’re free to take up to 25 articles of clothing you’ve passed over maybe a few too many times in the course of browsing your closet, and trade them for half their estimated selling price. The payoff may not cover any tuition bills, but it cuts it (badum-ching), and the sassy done-out-loud critiquing of whatever you send past the checkout desks more than makes up for the far too few bills (they’re always far too few) you’ll be stowing away in your wallet. That being said, you’ll probably be able to pick up dinner at the cool looking tapas place next door afterward, so think of it as dinner and a show that pays for itself!
I walked away with 22 extra dollars and a slightly less cumbersome backpack. I also opted for a light Subway salad to compliment my slightly heavier back pocket. Meh. All in all, an enjoyable evening, though I can’t help but scoff at the shop’s decision to pass over some of the stuff I thought would garner me thrift shop royal treatment. Especially in light of some of the junk they were advertising as vintage! Oh well. Sometimes condiments go bad, I suppose.
It’s funny how sometimes plans to go to the gym can get turned into plans to go to the grocery store to buy junk food, but not funny “haha” or even funny “hehe” for that matter. More like funny “psshhh.”
So here I find myself laughing snarkily at my own sit-com of an evening. Luckily, I’ve got some French alt-pop music to keep me company. And who would’ve guessed that it’s just about the best sound track for a night of being snarky?!?!
Carla Bruni is quickly gaining international fame, which is to say she will soon be popular in most places around the world and in a select few hipster coffee shops here in the states. I’ll admit now that she’s not nearly as pretentious as I may have led on earlier, but for the life of me I can’t figure out just how to break down her sound. She’s softer than Regina Spektor and more matured than Vanessa Carlton and then out of nowhere she comes striking like a pawn (and so on and so forth for an entire album cover) with a poppy but kind of bitter sounding rag.
I don’t know… I mean, I don’t even really speak French, but when track 8 on her debut, Quelqu’un ma dit, demands “regarder moi” you know what she means no matter what you speak and quickly realize that she’s worth the attention she’s asking for. I’m just glad to have stumbled across her before the official release of her upcoming English release, No Promises, which I’m weary won’t allow me a fraction of the Euro-cred I oh so desire.
Oh, and she’s drop dead gorgeous. I would regarder her all day given the chance.