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Fri, 31 Dec 2004
transmission from my sad old heart, lite
Ham-fisted. Yeah, I know. Fuck off. New Year's Eve is upon us, or at least, upon me, like a latex shirt on a skinny Persian frosh. 12/31/04 came in like a fucking juggernaut. News, thoughts, confusion, suspicion. All that, says Dr. Randall Phillip. No Matilda, the drama doesn't stop. Moreover, Hippo, I owe you an apology that you've retrospectively refused to accept (and wisely, in the estimation of some, though not all who professed such an opinion—you know who you are—but none of that matters anyway, the whole topic is as incapable of supporting life as the Milk by this point, having rotted away and been vented many times—on the roofdeck and elsewhere), but I'll offer it again anyway, mostly 'cause I'm on the receiving end this time, and man is it fun fun fun. So here's the story, told in a series of songs. Have a care for the perspective shifts—I'm not always me, nor am I always the same not-me when I'm not (me).
I'm not sure how the story ends yet. Popular candidates include:
Yeah, like I said, ham-fisted. See also Emo. By the way, I was discussing the other day with a friend from work whether a person who is given to hyperbole can himself be described as hyperbolic. Is a person hyperbolic because their statements are? I say yes, since it seems to me an extension of (or a taking of liberty with) usage which is entirely unambiguous and perhaps somewhat pleasing to the ear. He says no, just because it is, in his estimation, an extension of usage, the act of which is reserved for those who have established themselves as great writers or linguists. What do you guys think? Am I going to have to become Chomsky or (Heaven forbid, given the twinkie implications) Tolkien before I can officially declare myself the winner of this one? [ permalink | 7 comments ] |
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