evany's extended cake mix
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Friday, Oct. 17, 2003 | link
I was just thinking how perfect the word "xanax" is, perfect in the sense of my recent "monotonous" musings. Look at it: xanax. Soothing and balanced and symmetrical, just like the pill itself is supposed to make you feel. (But you know what? I tried some recently and it did absolutely nothing for me, like less than the effects of a sugar pill -- then again I think a sugar pill would make me pretty happy, especially if it was chewable?)
And then, just after I finished my loving thinkings on xanax, I read this description of the word "pebble" in Julie Myerson's article on synaesthia, where she described how "those 'b's bring with them the cool bumpiness of shingle underfoot." The fact that other people have their own collections of words made perfect by the way their construction matches their meanings truly happied me, but that satisfaction was tampered quite a bit by my jealousy over having never experienced the "joined sensation" of synaesthia sufferers, whose perception of words overlaps with their perception of color, so the word "Monday" is visualized and experienced as, say, pale pink, and "pebble" is grey-white.
That said, Ms. Myerson claims to find numbers completely colorless while I've always thought of them as having their own entire personalities, like "4" is a bookish man in his mid-thirties with a quiet sense of humor and "9" is a bossy anorexic queen of a woman. I don't think there's a word for that disorder yet, though.
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Hey, I was thinking. You know those grossly creative and energized people who are always working on a short story and polishing up a novel and running off to improv class and directing a play and editing their own magazines and piping out perfectly formed frosting gardenias on homemade triple-layer cakes and knitting and going to the gym and standing there with excellent posture and eating the prescribed five servings of fruits and vegetables a day? And you know those lazy, lazy people who have no problem, like experience no guilt whatsoever, lying slumped in front of bad television for three days straight eating Oreos? Well, do you think it's at all possible for one kind of person to transform themself into the other kind? Even if that person is a ripened thirty-three?
I really want to know because if it just isn't possible to change your fundamental approach to living, I can stop wasting time trying. Thus making room for more On Golden Pond viewings!
I'm not kidding. If you have an opinion on this, I super for sure want to hear about it.
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The air today smells so, so good, like being little.
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At the movies last night with Adrienne, Cruel and Unusual or whatever that Coen brothers' movie is, I ate a dry bag of popcorn and a vegan cookie with a sad taste that can be described only as "brown," and something about that combo absolutely DETONATED my bowels. My ass is still thinking about it today.