Stoned Love

Remember that Adam Sandler movie, The Wedding Singer? Of course you don't, and may I serve an intellectual penance of not more than 50 pages of Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit for mentioning same. (Hmm, does this mean I am going to have to spend an extra century or so in Academic Purgatory, privy to condescending lectures about my sinful "comma misusage" from snotty theology professors who think a good time is a Kierkegaard conference in Finland?

Oh wait!

Dude, I forgot, that was like, divinity school, land of the aggregiously petty, as in it's been nearly three damn years and those essay comments still sting, Herr Doktor Luther-Freudian-Faux-Pas Man.) And yes, dear readership of three, no wait, four blighted souls, that last bit was an inside joke all one of you probably get. (But you're snickering now, aren't you Katy? Ah yes, indeed, I go back, like Kenny Chesney's song of the same ilk, except without painful memories of Renee Zellwegger's sniping insinuations re: his manhood, and so forth.)

Ah, no... I suspect the Academic Ghosts Who Will Decide My Fate in the Afterworld (as no doubt they will, the miserable harpies) will have me instead write a dissertation linking Menudo, Chuck Woolery, and Milbank's obtuse little tome, Truth in Aquinas which, by the way, if you are daring enough to click on the link, is not "provacative" as the little blurb claims. Not provacative as in Sarah Jessica Parker, any way, unless things like radical orthodoxy get you all hot and bothered. Which, considering the readership of this blog, I suppose radical orthodoxy might indeed make one want to get all medieval on someone else's Summa Theologica, so maybe I'd better shut up and mumble my mea culpas now.

Any way, I digress. For those of you have seen the movie, remember that scene when Adam Sandler's character, apparently suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder related to a wedding-altar-jilting, has a break down at Drew Barrymore's wedding singer tryouts and starts wailing a song which is probably entitled something along the lines of "Somebody F---ing Kill Me (Somebody Kill Me Please)"? (Why yes indeed, that was a run-on sentence, Herr Doktor. Please sir, may I have some more?)

Yeah, well.

That song is a reccurent theme for my many shades of simmering rage (i.e. the "change of shift ED admission" variation) and is my current anthem for my pre-moving histrionic state, which I've discovered is roughly one part sheer annoyance and three parts indifferent denial. Not a pretty mix, people.

Ah well. One supposes having an abode in a place where the guns-to-people ratio is significantly lower on the former end of the equation can't be a bad thing. Besides, we're getting real furniture and stuff as part of the deal. Window treatments and curtains even, not to mention the biggest turn-on of all time, a washer and dryer in the house.

Oh yeah, baby.

Meanwhile, the dog seems to have been hitting the Mary Jane while we're not looking, or something, as evidenced by the following photographic proof:

Peace, Flower Dawg. Peace.