Speaking of southern writing, if I read the Faulkner "killing your darlings" quote one more time in an instructional setting, I'm going to scream.
I'd go out but I'm just plain exhausted, I'm drinking water like there's no tomorrow and I really shouldn't be spending more money anyway. Unless I spend it on groceries. Now there's an idea. The only problem is that it involves incredible feats of physical exertion, such as movement.
I moved around enough yesterday, honest. I went out to Funtown yesterday with Jo and Michael and was very pleased to see Excalibur running well for its age -- yeah, six years old isn't too long for a coaster but I've seen other coasters fall apart much quicker. Sure, the indi lapbars on the PTC train are now mismatched, but the ride's still a lot of fun. Jo put her hands up for the first time on a roller coaster and seemed to greatly enjoy the experience. She bought the picture and everything.
We went out for dinner at The Great Lost Bear in Portland, which quickly became one of my favorite bars. Fifty-something taps of regional microbrews and a great menu. Their french onion soup was how all french onion soup should be made worldwide, with an overabundance of cheese and bread croutons underneath and a delicious as all hell broth. I could have had three bowls and said to hell with the rest, but I didn't.
I got the "Mother & Child Reunion" sandwich which, while not the Chinese dish that inspired Rhymin' Simon, was a fried chicken fillet with a fried egg on top and there was melted cheese and I think bacon. My heart thumped hard a few times in abhorrent protest, then said "Oh what the hell, he'd only have spent those minutes he just lost screwing around anyway" and settled back down. Jo thumped me after I admitted the only reason I ordered the sandwich was because she thought it was a repugnant idea. Later, she pulled a knife on me out in the parking lot. That part is entirely true. What's also true is that I'd go back to the Great Lost Bear any time. It's the kind of place you'd actually move cities for.
This morning I wake up and, blessedly knife-wound free, discover that ol' Fark has discovered Cat Town. Now I'm not a regular Fark reader and I know that I orbit in certain social circles what absolutely detest the site, but I've tried to stay neutral on the topic as much as possible. Most of the people seem to be decent, God-fearing folk who enjoy a bit of nonsense or at least move along their merry way when they encounter it, but the place seems to have its fair share of, well, the Internet Stupid. Some of the bigger mental giants have deduced that I am a "ugly fat chick" who dresses my cats up like that to take their pictures, and have commented accordingly. How'd they decide that's who I was? They saw the picture of Rabs on the site. Oh god. I am so sorry, Rabs. I am so so so so so sorry. Oh jumping Jesus on a pogo stick while Mary and the saints stand around in a circle clapping in time.
I'm considering signing up for the stupid site just to say "HEY GREAT JOB GUYS, THANKS FOR BEING SO FUCKING DENSE YOU'D MAKE DANDY BRIDGE COUNTERWEIGHTS" but Beth said she's already posted in protest and other Farkers have hopped on the "dude, shut up, let's explain it to you in small words so you can understand" bandwagon and my phrase would get filtered to "FARKING DENSE" anyway. I guess it's just that where I come from, we don't suffer idiots lightly, and cast them off to the sea before they do any major damage.
So anyway. Thanks a lot for hurting a good friend, Anonymous Internet Males. I'm not sure how much superiority you're supposed to be able to muster up, posting on Fark and all, but may whatever remnants you get be dashed away in a horrible episode where your Internet girlfriend who loves anal turns out to be your mother, IMing you from upstairs. Now shut the hell up and go get me some Diet Coke, you drooling mongoloids.