The Stars and the Cookie Jar

rymenhild gave me a wonderful opportunity to get my geek on in her latest entry; I refuted, or tried to refute... uh, wait, sorry, I just got this flash of gutter Latin... I mean to say, I tried to challenge some things set forth in an NYT article. So, go over there. Throw tomatoes at me.

I did this at three in the morning. Then I fell asleep, with my headphones on and the end credit theme from Girl With A Pearl Earring on loop. Alexandre Desplat did some great work for that movie, but the movie was not what I ended up thinking of. See, the rant had been somewhat connected to basic human indulgences in Vilna; I sort of had this dream about Raissa and Violeta, perfectly soundtracked by this lovely piece of music, and now I'm totally blushing as I think it over, because obviously, I am eight years old.

Well, you know, women. Women are always lovely. Music that happens to fit just helps the imagery.

(hides under something)

I get to have surgery.

For those of you still bored from last time, allow me to register my astonishment that the debatable skill of surgeons at Waltham Deaconess bought me so many years.

For those of you who may be alarmed, concerned, or some similar: don't worry, it's very thoroughly researched, and a specialist known around the country is apparently doing it. He's Board Certified in many, many things, including slicing people open and rebooting them.

For the women I always meant to kiss, and never got up the nerve: if I live, do me a favor, pony up, will you? [Yes. I just waxed melodramatic. Lock me in a garret, strew the room with bad verse, and sue me.]

For my boss: I told you I was sick. See? See?

And now I'm going to sleep for two hours before work. Then I may curse at the Holy One, blessed be He, or at least His design team.