As CEO of Secondhand Rants, I would like to thank gentle reader Laura for murdering our entire PR Department. You want to know what happened, don’t you, dear reader? Well, have a seat—no, not by me, you cad—at the opposite end of my black, shiny, corporate-style table.
After Patrick was taken by aggressor Brandon Toyama, Sister Laura grieved for many moons. Our Very Humanitarian Department rushed to her aid, making what was once broken, whole; what was once lacking, fulfilled. She thanked us as any legless, armless supplicant to Mother Theresa would: by advertising Secondhand Rants in her AIM Profile.
“How on earth could an armless, legless supplicant type that out on AIM?” you ask, eyes wide as a twelve-car pile up.
“Even if you don’t have your arms and your legs, you’ve still got your NOSE, don’t you?” I retort in a flash of logical brilliance. “Plus, you could use your tongue to hold down the Shift key.”
With my new billboard—er, gentle reader product placement, I mean—in place, I proceeded to leave a trail of coffee cake, shiny pennies, and bits of cheese to draw my PR Department out. And drawn out they were. Right onto a major highway, in fact.
To the families of my PR Department: You may thank “gentle” reader Laura for this atrocity. Worry not, though, for our Very Humanitarian Department is on their way to your houses at this very moment with compensatory payment. Oh, and if you find a trail of Gorgonzola leading out from your front porch? Follow it, gentle families of my PR Department, follow it with all your heart!
I swore off the Debbil’s Chatbox a year or two ago, thinking I would never use the accursed contraption again. And yet, a recent noble pursuit in academia necessitated the return of AIM. After instant messaging with a few gentle readers yesterday, it dawned on me that I really do enjoy chatting with y’all, and that the recent turn of events filled an AIM-shaped hole in me.
Topics multiplex and interesting ding-dinged at me: Asians who look like Mexicans, Norah Jones, psycho-blogs in the making, the necessity of digital cameras, IMChaos—all of these struck me as interesting, even if a bit silly at times. True, some conversations were brief, some a bit longer, but all of them were welcome, all of them worthwhile.
Truly, you are the Muses of Secondhand Rants. And not the Muses that will see the BACK OF MY HAND, I hasten to add.
I leave you with this profound thought, along with the assurance that your eyes do not deceive you; I increased the font to a more readable size.
Good night, dear reader, and forget not to close your windows. I hear the squirrels are out in full force tonight!
“Before you dispense any more wisdom,” you inquire, “can I ask you a question?”
“If you must,” I groggily reply with eyes half-closed. “Wait a sec. How the HECK did you get into my house? And who are you?”
“Well,” you continue with some trepidation, “I’m your favorite gentle reader. I just wanted to know how your paper went.”
“How very considerate of you! I’m glad you asked.”
While typing my five-pagéd abomination yesterday night, my thoughts turned to you, dear reader, and how you were faring with your own hopes and struggles. But only for twenty-something seconds. Having said that, let’s turn to more important matters, shall we?
“We SHALL!” you concur.
You will agree with me, I’m sure, when I say how much we need a collegiate Book-It! program. Those who have forgotten this abominable program, shame on you! Shame, gentle reader, shame. Do you not recall the glory days when your mom signed off a dozen books—books that you didn’t actually read—so that you could get your too-small pizza? Do you not remember when all of Pizza Hut froze so that you could slowly, dramatically receive your ill-gotten gains? I enjoy reading SO MUCH these days, bless that program.
And shouldn’t we all get pats on our backs? Let me tell you how my night went. I rolled out of bed at about 2:30 AM this morning, but not before going through this debate. It will sound familiar to you, I swear.
“Well, self, it’s time to work on that paper.”
“But self! You deserve some more sleep.”
“I do deserve more sleep, don’t I?”
“You do.”
“Wait? What am I saying? Get behind me, me!”
Right about now is when you smack yourself with the business end of a mouse.
After doing so, you feel sorry for yourself. Sorry and hungry. While you usually eat healthily, you opt to shamble over to the vending machine, which at this hour looks like Evanston’s finest cuisine. You pop in your Wildcard and scan the selection.
“I’m going black-tie tonight,” you tell yourself, making sure to press the 1 to the 6 to the 2. “Pop Tart™ it is.”
How pathetic. You can leave now, gentle reader, and soak in the pleasant pathos of the night. I will make it up to you somehow, mark my words! Let’s go to the Art Institute sometime, okay?