Dear love machine,
I'm feeling depressed again because someone I work with at the journal of popular biography and cartoon science--The New Yorker? Yes, The New Yorker--told me she was wondering if we were (and I quote) "fizzling out." How can we be fizzling out? We haven't even gone through the phase where we think we are each other's soulmates, followed by the phase when our bad habits seem charming, then the phase when I admit I hate your family, then the phase when we try to figure out whether security should outweigh satisfaction, and then we fizzle out. Maybe she was just referring to my headache.
I just took a reporting trip to Bloomingdale's--yes, Bloomingdale's--and noticed they've opened a new department called "millennium kids" or Y2Cute or something like that. I'm thinking I'm already sick of the millennium and we have 11 months to go. Then I'm thinking: cool, whoever is the first baby born on Jan. 1, 2000, and then I'm thinking, there's probably money in that, and then I'm thinking, let's count backwards from Jan. 1 nine months and do a story interviewing all the bright-eyed young couples who are shooting for a millennial conception and see if they've lined up corporate sponsors yet. Then my head started hurting again.
I have an outrageous remark to make: I don't think Barnes and Noble is the Anti-Christ. More outrageous remarks: I find mobs of teenagers cheering the Pope almost as frightening as mobs of teenagers cheering Rancid or, for that matter, Andy Gibb, may his soul rest in peace. It's the mob and the cheering part that troubles me. When I was a teenager, I never mobbed or cheered anything; I was working on my apathy, as I think all teenagers should. Speaking of teenagers, I was thrilled to see that the Vatican has reaffirmed that the Devil exists--like, duh!--and they've issued a new, improved exorcism ritual. Genuine possession by the devil is judged by various criteria including the use of unknown languages, extraordinary strength, and the disclosure of hidden occurrences or events. Yo! Satan! Liiiiiiinnnnnddddaaaaatttrrriiippppp! Makes my head spin around in crazy circles while I projectile-vomit!
In case you were wondering, I 'm not wearing any panties.
Split-hoofed and lovin' it --