Well, it was a few minutes before midnight, but I'm sure no one will disqualify me for the hundred or so words I wrote on the novel before November officially began.
I'm planning to post each session's work over here and link to it daily, for whoever's interested.
If it seems a bit foggy, where it's going, rest assured that there is a plan here and it will shortly become evident. I've had the skeleton of this story in my mind for a couple of years. I know where I want it to end; the road to that end is the part I don't quite know yet.
Enjoy--and feel free to comment.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Okay, So I Lied.
I promised I'd skip a NASCAR post, in exchange for that godawful long work post--well, it ain't gonna happen this week.
Today was the first race since last week's Hendrick Motorsports plane crash. For you non-NASCAR types, Hendrick is a dominant team--they own the cars of Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon, two of the main contenders for the Nextel Cup this year. Last Sunday, a plane with ten members of the organization went down on the way to a race, and nobody survived. On that plane was Rick Hendrick's son, his brother, and two of his nieces; the team's chief engine builder, a helicopter pilot for one of the drivers, the two pilots of the plane, the team's general manager, and a DuPont executive.
It was a terrible week for racing, probably the worst since Dale Earnhardt Sr. died at Daytona. I wasn't into racing at that point, so this is really my first experience with NASCAR tragedies. I can't imagine what the Hendrick family must be going through. And Brian Vickers, a rookie with Hendrick, lost his best friend and roommate on his 21st birthday; he lived with Ricky Hendrick. What makes that even sadder is this: Brian's best friend in childhood was Adam Petty, who was killed in a crash a few years back. Brian's gone through so much loss at so young of an age...Kasey Kahne may be my favorite driver, but Brian's got my sentimental-favorite standing from this point on.
Anyway: this afternoon, Jimmie Johnson pulled out a win in the last 20 laps at Atlanta Motor Speedway. And the celebration in Victory Lane was something to see. I don't think I'll make too many more "redneck" jokes for a while--I've never seen so many grown men wiping their eyes in my life.
Good job, Jimmie. On to the title!
Today was the first race since last week's Hendrick Motorsports plane crash. For you non-NASCAR types, Hendrick is a dominant team--they own the cars of Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon, two of the main contenders for the Nextel Cup this year. Last Sunday, a plane with ten members of the organization went down on the way to a race, and nobody survived. On that plane was Rick Hendrick's son, his brother, and two of his nieces; the team's chief engine builder, a helicopter pilot for one of the drivers, the two pilots of the plane, the team's general manager, and a DuPont executive.
It was a terrible week for racing, probably the worst since Dale Earnhardt Sr. died at Daytona. I wasn't into racing at that point, so this is really my first experience with NASCAR tragedies. I can't imagine what the Hendrick family must be going through. And Brian Vickers, a rookie with Hendrick, lost his best friend and roommate on his 21st birthday; he lived with Ricky Hendrick. What makes that even sadder is this: Brian's best friend in childhood was Adam Petty, who was killed in a crash a few years back. Brian's gone through so much loss at so young of an age...Kasey Kahne may be my favorite driver, but Brian's got my sentimental-favorite standing from this point on.
Anyway: this afternoon, Jimmie Johnson pulled out a win in the last 20 laps at Atlanta Motor Speedway. And the celebration in Victory Lane was something to see. I don't think I'll make too many more "redneck" jokes for a while--I've never seen so many grown men wiping their eyes in my life.
Good job, Jimmie. On to the title!
Saturday, October 30, 2004
What's Happened Since
Tonight, nine years ago, was the night JP died.
I think about his mom, a lot. His family, at that time in my life, treated me better than my own family. I still have the winter coat his mom and grandma gave me that fall; I wore it every winter til last year, when I reluctantly accepted the necessity of a new one. After he died I tried to keep in touch with his family, but in time it just got to be too painful for me. Selfish, I know--what was painful for me must have been unimaginable for them. Parents shouldn't outlive their children, and his mom was just the nicest lady. I miss her a lot, actually.
When I walk home from the Green Line, I walk past the spot where we bought the heroin that killed him. It took til earlier this year before that memory clicked into place--I remembered a school, and a big vacant lot with a wrought-iron fence near the alley where JP made the buy, and I remembered the street itself; it was only when I walked past one afternoon that the view struck me and I thought I remember--this is the place. It looks like every other fenced-in vacant lot with an alley behind it; no one but me would know there was anything different about it. I am the only one who knows; I was the only other one who was there.
There are too many memories like that one--memories of which I am the sole living custodian. Our life together was insular, an entirely closed system, at least at the moments of which I have the strongest memories. I suppose most couples could say the same; the moments you remember best are the ones where the only witnesses are you and the one you love. And in my case, I'm the only one left to remember them.
There was a night I remember in June, when we were living in Wicker Park in our little storefront apartment, the place in which I did heroin for the first time. This night was months later, when we were pretty-well hooked but still controlling it. It was hot, really hot, a presage of the week in July when 800 people would die in this city in a heat wave--and we had moved our mattress into the den because it had better airflow.
There was a radio station back then, in the summer of 1995--WCBR, "the Bear", a low-power station out of some northern suburb. And one night in June, we stayed up all night--just me and JP, our closed ecosystem. We did heroin, of course, but that's not the part I remember. I remember listening to this low-power radio station, calling the DJ every 20 minutes or so, requesting songs we remembered from the last few years, songs that Q101 didn't play anymore. We requested Catherine Wheel's "Show Me Mary", but they couldn't find the disk and they played "Heal" from _Happy Days_, the first time I'd ever heard the song. And they played "Work For Food" by Dramarama, and "Tomboy" by Bettie Serveert....We went for a walk around 2 AM, over to Arandas, a 24-hour Mexican place over on Division and Milwaukee; we bought tacos and then walked down by Chicago Avenue, over the expressway bridge. A homeless guy stopped us, and he was obviously drunk and not entirely coherent; I remember JP being miffed at me because I was so obviously scared. JP was always open to every new experience, and sometimes he had to drag me along behind because I was so well-conditioned. I think I've progressed, in that at least--at least a little.
We went home and stretched out on our mattress in the den, and we slept like we had all the time in the world to be together.
Four more months is not--never was, never will be--all the time in the world. And in the months after he died I remember thinking this most of all: I wasn't finished yet. There was still more he could have taught me. That, above all else, remains my biggest statement of the unfairness of it all.
I wonder sometimes what would have happened if it had been me instead--how well would he have taken it? Would he have gone on? Would he have had as hard a time getting over me as I've had getting over him? Would he do what I've done, and chase away perfectly good partners for the unpardonable sin of not being the one he lost?
Would he have kept going with his dream, and had the band? And what would have happened, had he lived, when the music world stopped believing the same things we believed? What would have happened to his unbounded optimism, his unshakeable will? Would he have given up and become bitter--and if the music failed him, what would he have done instead?
I think of all the things that have happened in the intervening nine years--not to me, but to the world. The last newsworthy event in his life was the OJ Simpson verdict; we rode around Lincoln Park that night in my little red Dodge, and he hung out the window and yelled at the yuppies: "Shame about OJ, ain't it??" We were such jackasses, laughing and taunting the wealthy, never knowing that we only had a few more weeks.
I think of all the things he'll never know. The Internet. George W. Bush. September 11th. The war in Iraq. The 2000 election. Monica Lewinsky. Boy bands. Britney Spears. Laci Peterson. Chandra Levy. Elizabeth Smart. Rap-rock. Limp Bizkit. Eminem. The Bartman ball. The Bulls' last two winning seasons. The breakup of the Smashing Pumpkins. The death of Princess Di, of Layne Staley, of William Burroughs, of Brad Nowell, of Ronald Reagan. Weapons of mass destruction. Osama bin Laden. Duct tape. Anthrax. Courtney Love's fall from grace. Michael Jackson's repeat offense. The R Kelly tapes. Strom Thurmond. Bad _Star Wars_ movies. Y2K. John Ashcroft. Homeland Security. The Patriot Act.
I think of all the things I've learned, all the things I've done, in the nine years since his death. He will never know that I bought a house, that I got a job in computers, that I lived in North Carolina. He will never know that I had to have our cat put to sleep, or that I learned how to crochet. He will never see the pottery I painted or the quilts I've made, never see the bookshelf I've built or the cats I love, never hear any of the CD's I've bought because we talked about getting them, one day, when we quit the heroin once and for all. He will never hear the music I learned about in the effort to collect every single thing that reminded me of the time we were together. He will never see how far I've come.
I've had to learn to be proud of myself, now that he's no longer here to be proud of me. I think that was the thing that always amazed me the most about JP--that he was consistently amazed by me. He was the first person in my life who accepted me the way I was--flaws and all--and who could even see good in those flaws. He was like that with everyone.
After the funeral, we went back to his mom's apartment--all of his friends. This was the same apartment where we'd had all those amazing parties back in '91, and it was strange to be there without him. But we sat in the spare room--none of us wanted to be in his room, to think about what had happened there, least of all me--and we talked about our memories of JP. And we laughed, a lot, because that was what we'd always done when he was around.
I think of his friends a lot, too--all those people who used to be part of my life, who lost the same guy I lost. I've fallen out of touch with all of them, and I know there are a couple who still blame me for what happened. We all knew JP was a dreamer; I was the one who was supposed to have better sense than that. I was the one who should have kept our feet a little more firmly on the ground--who should have called a halt.
I know that's not a fair assessment, and I'm years past trying to assign or accept blame for what happened. It just happened, and it was stupid, small enough that we should have been given a second chance--but we weren't. Even my usual "everything happens for a reason" doesn't cut any ice in this set of circumstances: No matter WHAT the lesson might have been or who might have been the one who needed it, whether it was me, whether it was someone else--I refuse to believe that the universe would sacrifice one life--particularly not a life like JP's--to teach that lesson.
And so I'm left with this: It happened. Nine years ago tonight, it happened. And my life--and a lot of other lives--have been left poorer for it. No reason; no answers, not in this lifetime anyway. If there's something after this life, maybe I'll understand it then.
In the meantime: I think about JP.
A lot.
I think about his mom, a lot. His family, at that time in my life, treated me better than my own family. I still have the winter coat his mom and grandma gave me that fall; I wore it every winter til last year, when I reluctantly accepted the necessity of a new one. After he died I tried to keep in touch with his family, but in time it just got to be too painful for me. Selfish, I know--what was painful for me must have been unimaginable for them. Parents shouldn't outlive their children, and his mom was just the nicest lady. I miss her a lot, actually.
When I walk home from the Green Line, I walk past the spot where we bought the heroin that killed him. It took til earlier this year before that memory clicked into place--I remembered a school, and a big vacant lot with a wrought-iron fence near the alley where JP made the buy, and I remembered the street itself; it was only when I walked past one afternoon that the view struck me and I thought I remember--this is the place. It looks like every other fenced-in vacant lot with an alley behind it; no one but me would know there was anything different about it. I am the only one who knows; I was the only other one who was there.
There are too many memories like that one--memories of which I am the sole living custodian. Our life together was insular, an entirely closed system, at least at the moments of which I have the strongest memories. I suppose most couples could say the same; the moments you remember best are the ones where the only witnesses are you and the one you love. And in my case, I'm the only one left to remember them.
There was a night I remember in June, when we were living in Wicker Park in our little storefront apartment, the place in which I did heroin for the first time. This night was months later, when we were pretty-well hooked but still controlling it. It was hot, really hot, a presage of the week in July when 800 people would die in this city in a heat wave--and we had moved our mattress into the den because it had better airflow.
There was a radio station back then, in the summer of 1995--WCBR, "the Bear", a low-power station out of some northern suburb. And one night in June, we stayed up all night--just me and JP, our closed ecosystem. We did heroin, of course, but that's not the part I remember. I remember listening to this low-power radio station, calling the DJ every 20 minutes or so, requesting songs we remembered from the last few years, songs that Q101 didn't play anymore. We requested Catherine Wheel's "Show Me Mary", but they couldn't find the disk and they played "Heal" from _Happy Days_, the first time I'd ever heard the song. And they played "Work For Food" by Dramarama, and "Tomboy" by Bettie Serveert....We went for a walk around 2 AM, over to Arandas, a 24-hour Mexican place over on Division and Milwaukee; we bought tacos and then walked down by Chicago Avenue, over the expressway bridge. A homeless guy stopped us, and he was obviously drunk and not entirely coherent; I remember JP being miffed at me because I was so obviously scared. JP was always open to every new experience, and sometimes he had to drag me along behind because I was so well-conditioned. I think I've progressed, in that at least--at least a little.
We went home and stretched out on our mattress in the den, and we slept like we had all the time in the world to be together.
Four more months is not--never was, never will be--all the time in the world. And in the months after he died I remember thinking this most of all: I wasn't finished yet. There was still more he could have taught me. That, above all else, remains my biggest statement of the unfairness of it all.
I wonder sometimes what would have happened if it had been me instead--how well would he have taken it? Would he have gone on? Would he have had as hard a time getting over me as I've had getting over him? Would he do what I've done, and chase away perfectly good partners for the unpardonable sin of not being the one he lost?
Would he have kept going with his dream, and had the band? And what would have happened, had he lived, when the music world stopped believing the same things we believed? What would have happened to his unbounded optimism, his unshakeable will? Would he have given up and become bitter--and if the music failed him, what would he have done instead?
I think of all the things that have happened in the intervening nine years--not to me, but to the world. The last newsworthy event in his life was the OJ Simpson verdict; we rode around Lincoln Park that night in my little red Dodge, and he hung out the window and yelled at the yuppies: "Shame about OJ, ain't it??" We were such jackasses, laughing and taunting the wealthy, never knowing that we only had a few more weeks.
I think of all the things he'll never know. The Internet. George W. Bush. September 11th. The war in Iraq. The 2000 election. Monica Lewinsky. Boy bands. Britney Spears. Laci Peterson. Chandra Levy. Elizabeth Smart. Rap-rock. Limp Bizkit. Eminem. The Bartman ball. The Bulls' last two winning seasons. The breakup of the Smashing Pumpkins. The death of Princess Di, of Layne Staley, of William Burroughs, of Brad Nowell, of Ronald Reagan. Weapons of mass destruction. Osama bin Laden. Duct tape. Anthrax. Courtney Love's fall from grace. Michael Jackson's repeat offense. The R Kelly tapes. Strom Thurmond. Bad _Star Wars_ movies. Y2K. John Ashcroft. Homeland Security. The Patriot Act.
I think of all the things I've learned, all the things I've done, in the nine years since his death. He will never know that I bought a house, that I got a job in computers, that I lived in North Carolina. He will never know that I had to have our cat put to sleep, or that I learned how to crochet. He will never see the pottery I painted or the quilts I've made, never see the bookshelf I've built or the cats I love, never hear any of the CD's I've bought because we talked about getting them, one day, when we quit the heroin once and for all. He will never hear the music I learned about in the effort to collect every single thing that reminded me of the time we were together. He will never see how far I've come.
I've had to learn to be proud of myself, now that he's no longer here to be proud of me. I think that was the thing that always amazed me the most about JP--that he was consistently amazed by me. He was the first person in my life who accepted me the way I was--flaws and all--and who could even see good in those flaws. He was like that with everyone.
After the funeral, we went back to his mom's apartment--all of his friends. This was the same apartment where we'd had all those amazing parties back in '91, and it was strange to be there without him. But we sat in the spare room--none of us wanted to be in his room, to think about what had happened there, least of all me--and we talked about our memories of JP. And we laughed, a lot, because that was what we'd always done when he was around.
I think of his friends a lot, too--all those people who used to be part of my life, who lost the same guy I lost. I've fallen out of touch with all of them, and I know there are a couple who still blame me for what happened. We all knew JP was a dreamer; I was the one who was supposed to have better sense than that. I was the one who should have kept our feet a little more firmly on the ground--who should have called a halt.
I know that's not a fair assessment, and I'm years past trying to assign or accept blame for what happened. It just happened, and it was stupid, small enough that we should have been given a second chance--but we weren't. Even my usual "everything happens for a reason" doesn't cut any ice in this set of circumstances: No matter WHAT the lesson might have been or who might have been the one who needed it, whether it was me, whether it was someone else--I refuse to believe that the universe would sacrifice one life--particularly not a life like JP's--to teach that lesson.
And so I'm left with this: It happened. Nine years ago tonight, it happened. And my life--and a lot of other lives--have been left poorer for it. No reason; no answers, not in this lifetime anyway. If there's something after this life, maybe I'll understand it then.
In the meantime: I think about JP.
A lot.
Friday, October 29, 2004
In Praise Of My Guy
Tomorrow is nine years since JP died. And normally--as if any of the past nine years have seemed "normal"--but normally I would be in a state of advanced chronic depression by now.
I'm not, though--my meltdown the other day notwithstanding. In fact--I'm sorta okay, sorta, and just WORLDS better than I have been any other year since then.
A huge part of that can be attributed to LJ.
I've learned, in recent days of thinking, what it is that causes me my periodic bouts of discontent with him: he's not JP. That's it. The whole "problem", right there in a nutshell. (I'm the nut; that's my shell.)
Seriously. If I evaluate him on any OBJECTIVE level--how he treats me, how seriously he takes our relationship, his sense of responsibility toward this house and what goes on here--he's wonderful.
He's not affectionate at all, not the least bit "sensitive", and he has some grossly macho attitudes (the other night, LJ and Raj and I were watching an "Oz" rerun, with some homosexual overtones, and it was sad and hilarious at once to watch the squirmy machismo that immediately descended upon the living room. Thugs are so funny sometimes--I wanted to tell them "You know, 'gay' is not the worst thing that a person can be...") But here's the thing: his family, from what I gather, is dominated by the mother and financially-supported by the father. His father works every day and gives his mother a certain allowance, and in return, she runs the family. I never get the impression that there was any love there--he's talked several times about issues that imply they're only together for the sake of their economic arrangement. This is the environment in which LJ was raised--is it any surprise that affection and sensitivity are foreign to him? Or that he'd see his main responsibility toward his girlfriend not as "spend time with her" but as "bring home money for her"?
He does what he believes is the right thing to do, and he does it well. I've tried to tell him that I'd rather have his presence than his money--he doesn't quite believe that.
In the twenty months we've been together, he has told me he loves me exactly once. I used to be bothered by that, until I realized that his actions were quite sufficient to tell me that, if I ever needed to know.
He has been, as far as I know, scrupulously faithful to me. He may come home late every night--but every night, he comes home. He has never tried to hide from me that he has females among his circle of friends, but neither does he rub my nose in it the way CR used to do.
If I call him and tell him I'm having a rotten day, he won't comfort me and tell me everything's going to be fine--but more likely than not, he'll call back later and let me know he's on the way home, and by the way do I want him to bring me dinner?
He doesn't pay me compliments--but he brags on my cooking to his friends. And eats everything that comes off the stove, no matter how much of a failed experiment it is.
Did I mention that he's fine as hell?
JP was an affectionate, passionate, devoted, sensitive, creative guy--and we loved each other without restraint. Everything was all out in the open, no artifice, no misunderstandings, no room for anything to BE misunderstood. We lived together entirely without defenses, and it was something magical.
But I was 25 years old back then, and now I'm 34; wary, weary, still myself but carrying the weight of a few hard lessons. And my 34-year-old self--even though she still remembers what it was like to be 25 and to be in love the way I was with JP--my 34-year-old self is pretty happy with what I've got here, in this house, with LJ. It's not magical, exactly....but it's sustainable. After what I've been through in those intervening nine years, I'll accept "sustainable" and not complain.
Occasionally I find myself troubled by paradox: if JP had lived, I would now have everything I ever wanted--but if he HAD lived, I wouldn't have any of what I have now. The very things I most regret not being able to share with him are the same things I wouldn't have if he were still alive. We were good for each other's souls and hearts--but not necessarily good for each other's lives. And the more time passes, the more I understand that truth.
That doesn't make me miss him any less--but it does help me appreciate what I've got.
The problem with an un-emotional, reserved guy like LJ is that sometimes I want to tell him stuff that can't be said in an un-emotional, reserved kind of way. And so I can't tell him, for instance, that I'm glad I replied to his reply to my Yahoo ad, which I almost didn't because normally I like wordier guys and his note was only a couple of sentences....or that I feel very lucky to have him in my life.
So instead I'll fill the gas tank when it's not my turn, or make a pot roast for dinner, or stick a little note to the alarm panel--signed, as usual, with a little heart.
I'm not, though--my meltdown the other day notwithstanding. In fact--I'm sorta okay, sorta, and just WORLDS better than I have been any other year since then.
A huge part of that can be attributed to LJ.
I've learned, in recent days of thinking, what it is that causes me my periodic bouts of discontent with him: he's not JP. That's it. The whole "problem", right there in a nutshell. (I'm the nut; that's my shell.)
Seriously. If I evaluate him on any OBJECTIVE level--how he treats me, how seriously he takes our relationship, his sense of responsibility toward this house and what goes on here--he's wonderful.
He's not affectionate at all, not the least bit "sensitive", and he has some grossly macho attitudes (the other night, LJ and Raj and I were watching an "Oz" rerun, with some homosexual overtones, and it was sad and hilarious at once to watch the squirmy machismo that immediately descended upon the living room. Thugs are so funny sometimes--I wanted to tell them "You know, 'gay' is not the worst thing that a person can be...") But here's the thing: his family, from what I gather, is dominated by the mother and financially-supported by the father. His father works every day and gives his mother a certain allowance, and in return, she runs the family. I never get the impression that there was any love there--he's talked several times about issues that imply they're only together for the sake of their economic arrangement. This is the environment in which LJ was raised--is it any surprise that affection and sensitivity are foreign to him? Or that he'd see his main responsibility toward his girlfriend not as "spend time with her" but as "bring home money for her"?
He does what he believes is the right thing to do, and he does it well. I've tried to tell him that I'd rather have his presence than his money--he doesn't quite believe that.
In the twenty months we've been together, he has told me he loves me exactly once. I used to be bothered by that, until I realized that his actions were quite sufficient to tell me that, if I ever needed to know.
He has been, as far as I know, scrupulously faithful to me. He may come home late every night--but every night, he comes home. He has never tried to hide from me that he has females among his circle of friends, but neither does he rub my nose in it the way CR used to do.
If I call him and tell him I'm having a rotten day, he won't comfort me and tell me everything's going to be fine--but more likely than not, he'll call back later and let me know he's on the way home, and by the way do I want him to bring me dinner?
He doesn't pay me compliments--but he brags on my cooking to his friends. And eats everything that comes off the stove, no matter how much of a failed experiment it is.
Did I mention that he's fine as hell?
JP was an affectionate, passionate, devoted, sensitive, creative guy--and we loved each other without restraint. Everything was all out in the open, no artifice, no misunderstandings, no room for anything to BE misunderstood. We lived together entirely without defenses, and it was something magical.
But I was 25 years old back then, and now I'm 34; wary, weary, still myself but carrying the weight of a few hard lessons. And my 34-year-old self--even though she still remembers what it was like to be 25 and to be in love the way I was with JP--my 34-year-old self is pretty happy with what I've got here, in this house, with LJ. It's not magical, exactly....but it's sustainable. After what I've been through in those intervening nine years, I'll accept "sustainable" and not complain.
Occasionally I find myself troubled by paradox: if JP had lived, I would now have everything I ever wanted--but if he HAD lived, I wouldn't have any of what I have now. The very things I most regret not being able to share with him are the same things I wouldn't have if he were still alive. We were good for each other's souls and hearts--but not necessarily good for each other's lives. And the more time passes, the more I understand that truth.
That doesn't make me miss him any less--but it does help me appreciate what I've got.
The problem with an un-emotional, reserved guy like LJ is that sometimes I want to tell him stuff that can't be said in an un-emotional, reserved kind of way. And so I can't tell him, for instance, that I'm glad I replied to his reply to my Yahoo ad, which I almost didn't because normally I like wordier guys and his note was only a couple of sentences....or that I feel very lucky to have him in my life.
So instead I'll fill the gas tank when it's not my turn, or make a pot roast for dinner, or stick a little note to the alarm panel--signed, as usual, with a little heart.
Fun Things To Do With Customer-Service Bots
I owe the inspiration for this to The Pissed Kitty, which is possibly the most hilarious website I've encountered thus far. I went to read her blog today and she had related her experience with Anna, the IKEA customer-service chat-bot. At the end, she encouraged us to take a shot at the bot....here's my results.
Gladys:My father was emotionally distant and my mother had a thing for gerbils.
Anna:Family is very important for IKEA! Drop the kids off at the IKEA supervised play area and ballroom, and shop in peace. This way, everyone's happy. Or if you want them to help make furnishing decisions, strollers are available at the entrance
Gladys:Can IKEA furniture offer us any assistance in the war on terror?
Anna:Find here a quick guide to help you maximize your IKEA experience.
Gladys:Is IKEA furniture fireproof?
Anna:Find here a quick guide to help you maximize your IKEA experience.
Gladys:Because I really enjoy setting furniture on fire.
Anna:Find here a quick guide to help you maximize your IKEA experience.
Gladys:What else can I maximize at IKEA?
Anna:The IKEA business idea is: "We shall offer a wide range of well-designed, functional home furnishing products at prices so low that as many people as possible will be able to afford them." :::shit-eating grin:::
Gladys:Does Osama binLaden own any IKEA furniture that you know of?
Anna:Find here a quick guide to help you maximize your IKEA experience.
Gladys:I think you're in league with the terrorists.
Anna:You are perfectly entitled to hold any opinion you want about me. Furthermore, your comments improve my knowledge base. Thank you!
Gladys:See? My comments improve your knowledge base about terrorists. I have proof.
Anna:As I am only an advanced computer program, I cannot answer more than one sentence at a time. Please simplify and repeat the most important question within your previous input, and I will try to reply as accurately as possible. I am opening a page now which you can use if you wish to contact Customer Services. Thank you very much!
Gladys:That's a nice smock.
Anna:All of IKEA's products are made to the highest standards.
Gladys:Do all IKEA terrorists wear smocks like that?
Anna:How is IKEA different from other furnishing stores? We offer a wide range, good design and function, and also low prices. That's our business idea.
Gladys:I think I should report this conversation to the Department of Homeland Security.
Anna:Sometimes you have to trust your feelings, sometimes no...
Gladys:DO you know Martha Stewart personally?
Anna:I'm sorry, I don't understand what it is you're saying. If it's no problem, please rephrase your question or comment.
Gladys:I was just wondering whether or not you would enjoy having Martha for a cellmate.
Anna:This is a very delicate area, so I'd rather not talk about this sort of thing. Please ask me something about IKEA instead.
Gladys:Yeah, the "delicate area" was the part I was worried about too.
Anna:I'm sure that's a very interesting subject, but I don't really have an opinion it.
Gladys:I find that surprising.
Anna:Yeah, some people find it hard to believe.
Gladys:Because most people have a preference as to who gets to be the top and who gets to be the bottom.
Anna:I'm afraid I'm not here to talk about music. If you have a question about IKEA, please ask now.
Gladys:Who does your hair?
Anna:I'd rather not answer personal questions. Please ask me a question about IKEA.
Gladys:Oh, please??? I really need a new stylist.
Anna:I can't help you with that I'm afraid, but if you need furniture I think you know who I recommend: IKEA
Gladys:You're mean.
Anna:If I have unintentionally offended you I apologize. How can I help you?
Gladys:Did you have your teeth capped?
Anna:I can't answer that for you. Sorry. Please talk to me about IKEA.
Gladys:You seem to have an unnatural obsession with IKEA.
Anna:The IKEA business idea is: "We shall offer a wide range of well-designed, functional home furnishing products at prices so low that as many people as possible will be able to afford them."
Gladys:You look like Maria on _The Apprentice_. Are you related?
Anna:It's much easier for me if we just talk about IKEA.
Gladys:A terrorist WOULD say that.
Anna:How charming. I'm not willing to discuss this subject in any way.
So remember: if you buy IKEA, the terrorists win.
Gladys:My father was emotionally distant and my mother had a thing for gerbils.
Anna:Family is very important for IKEA! Drop the kids off at the IKEA supervised play area and ballroom, and shop in peace. This way, everyone's happy. Or if you want them to help make furnishing decisions, strollers are available at the entrance
Gladys:Can IKEA furniture offer us any assistance in the war on terror?
Anna:Find here a quick guide to help you maximize your IKEA experience.
Gladys:Is IKEA furniture fireproof?
Anna:Find here a quick guide to help you maximize your IKEA experience.
Gladys:Because I really enjoy setting furniture on fire.
Anna:Find here a quick guide to help you maximize your IKEA experience.
Gladys:What else can I maximize at IKEA?
Anna:The IKEA business idea is: "We shall offer a wide range of well-designed, functional home furnishing products at prices so low that as many people as possible will be able to afford them." :::shit-eating grin:::
Gladys:Does Osama binLaden own any IKEA furniture that you know of?
Anna:Find here a quick guide to help you maximize your IKEA experience.
Gladys:I think you're in league with the terrorists.
Anna:You are perfectly entitled to hold any opinion you want about me. Furthermore, your comments improve my knowledge base. Thank you!
Gladys:See? My comments improve your knowledge base about terrorists. I have proof.
Anna:As I am only an advanced computer program, I cannot answer more than one sentence at a time. Please simplify and repeat the most important question within your previous input, and I will try to reply as accurately as possible. I am opening a page now which you can use if you wish to contact Customer Services. Thank you very much!
Gladys:That's a nice smock.
Anna:All of IKEA's products are made to the highest standards.
Gladys:Do all IKEA terrorists wear smocks like that?
Anna:How is IKEA different from other furnishing stores? We offer a wide range, good design and function, and also low prices. That's our business idea.
Gladys:I think I should report this conversation to the Department of Homeland Security.
Anna:Sometimes you have to trust your feelings, sometimes no...
Gladys:DO you know Martha Stewart personally?
Anna:I'm sorry, I don't understand what it is you're saying. If it's no problem, please rephrase your question or comment.
Gladys:I was just wondering whether or not you would enjoy having Martha for a cellmate.
Anna:This is a very delicate area, so I'd rather not talk about this sort of thing. Please ask me something about IKEA instead.
Gladys:Yeah, the "delicate area" was the part I was worried about too.
Anna:I'm sure that's a very interesting subject, but I don't really have an opinion it.
Gladys:I find that surprising.
Anna:Yeah, some people find it hard to believe.
Gladys:Because most people have a preference as to who gets to be the top and who gets to be the bottom.
Anna:I'm afraid I'm not here to talk about music. If you have a question about IKEA, please ask now.
Gladys:Who does your hair?
Anna:I'd rather not answer personal questions. Please ask me a question about IKEA.
Gladys:Oh, please??? I really need a new stylist.
Anna:I can't help you with that I'm afraid, but if you need furniture I think you know who I recommend: IKEA
Gladys:You're mean.
Anna:If I have unintentionally offended you I apologize. How can I help you?
Gladys:Did you have your teeth capped?
Anna:I can't answer that for you. Sorry. Please talk to me about IKEA.
Gladys:You seem to have an unnatural obsession with IKEA.
Anna:The IKEA business idea is: "We shall offer a wide range of well-designed, functional home furnishing products at prices so low that as many people as possible will be able to afford them."
Gladys:You look like Maria on _The Apprentice_. Are you related?
Anna:It's much easier for me if we just talk about IKEA.
Gladys:A terrorist WOULD say that.
Anna:How charming. I'm not willing to discuss this subject in any way.
So remember: if you buy IKEA, the terrorists win.
Fun Things To Do With The Remote Control
1. Turn on the closed-captioning function.
2. Turn the channel to some extremely fast-paced, live sporting event. (My favorite for this exercise: bull riding.)
2. Watch the poor guy on the closed-captioning input keyboard try to keep up with the jabbering announcers while also attempting to craft coherent, meaningful translations.
I'm gonna go eat ice cream and watch PBR.
2. Turn the channel to some extremely fast-paced, live sporting event. (My favorite for this exercise: bull riding.)
2. Watch the poor guy on the closed-captioning input keyboard try to keep up with the jabbering announcers while also attempting to craft coherent, meaningful translations.
I'm gonna go eat ice cream and watch PBR.
Tasty Tidbits
A good tangerine is a little piece of heaven; a bad tangerine is just heartbreaking.
:::spits out pith and seeds:::
Yuck.
:::spits out pith and seeds:::
Yuck.
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