2003-06-04

Every single day at two o�clock, I perform the same routine, like a sad little hamster compulsively performing the same sad little perambulations* around the circumference of its sad little cage. I go downstairs to the tabagie (that�s snooty-sounding French for �smoke shop�) and get myself a Diet Coke and a package containing two chocolate chip cookies. I�ve discovered a brand of cookie that�s actually vegan, from this little backwoods Qu�becois company that makes �wholesome� snacks (of course, the second listed ingredient is sugar, and the fourth is oil). Every day I tell myself I�m not getting the cursed cookies. I eat healthy food, goddammit! And yet every day at two o�clock, I cave before the mighty temptation that is chewy chocolate chip cookies. They�re CHEWY! Mother of God! Now, I can resist all manner of things, from the concupiscent pleasures of the flesh (does turning down propositions from leering drunkmonkeys count as �resisting�? On my Virtue-O-Meter it does!) to the illicit intoxication of hard drugs (not so my cokewhore of a toothbrush, sadly), but I am weak-willed and unresisting as a cheerleader on GHB before the pull of Chewy Chocolate Chip. And, apparently, before the temptation to use parentheses in EVERY FUCKING SENTENCE (except this one�fuck).

*Did you know that the word �pram,� as in baby carriage, is actually short for �perambulator�? I was reading a Forster novel, and one of the characters exited the scene to take Baby for a walk in the �perambulator.� This alarmed me for a moment before I realized what it was. PERAMBULA-TOR! Sounds like something you�d put someone in to forcibly extract political secrets. �Still not feeling conversational, eh? Perhaps you�ll change your tune after a few minutes in the PERAMBULATOR!�

�Is it fucking two o�clock yet?