A Report that Prompts a Confession
I am now three emails deep into a "reply all" debacle that I'm wondering if I should have ever engaged in to begin with. Who was it, recently, who said that the "reply all" function was evil and should be destroyed? New Kid? Maggie May? All I can say is: Word up, my sisters.
Post dinner, I spent 45 minutes obsessively close-reading multiple threads of this mother-biting "conversation" and crafting what I hoped was a non-threatening, clarifying response that would be neutral but not blithe, rational but not dogmatic. You know, a floor wax and a dessert topping.
And when I finished, and read it to poor, long-suffering Senor Fluff, and changed a preposition, and checked my grammar, and debated, again, to whom I should address it, I hit "send" and thought: "there's not enough fanfiction dedicated to a certain pop culture television show about blood suckers in the world to distract me from obsessing about this crap."
Welcome to my confession. Avert your eyes, if it's too ugly. Sure, I spent years in graduate school studying elite, high Modernist literature and avant garde movements. I love a lapidary, page long sentence as much as the next girl. But when I really need to get out of my head (which is a lot, for the record), I've been surfing the interwebs for what 18 year olds think of as the epitome of romance between humans and the undead. And the supply is endless, and endlessly diverting. And sometimes, when it's really good, I bookmark it.
Judge me. Go on. I need it.
Post dinner, I spent 45 minutes obsessively close-reading multiple threads of this mother-biting "conversation" and crafting what I hoped was a non-threatening, clarifying response that would be neutral but not blithe, rational but not dogmatic. You know, a floor wax and a dessert topping.
And when I finished, and read it to poor, long-suffering Senor Fluff, and changed a preposition, and checked my grammar, and debated, again, to whom I should address it, I hit "send" and thought: "there's not enough fanfiction dedicated to a certain pop culture television show about blood suckers in the world to distract me from obsessing about this crap."
Welcome to my confession. Avert your eyes, if it's too ugly. Sure, I spent years in graduate school studying elite, high Modernist literature and avant garde movements. I love a lapidary, page long sentence as much as the next girl. But when I really need to get out of my head (which is a lot, for the record), I've been surfing the interwebs for what 18 year olds think of as the epitome of romance between humans and the undead. And the supply is endless, and endlessly diverting. And sometimes, when it's really good, I bookmark it.
Judge me. Go on. I need it.
Labels: academentia, solipsism
posted by kfluff at 10:11 PM
3 Comments:
No judgment from me. I just like this sentence: "5 minutes obsessively close-reading multiple threads of this mother-biting 'conversation.'" Will use "mother-biting" in a sentence today.
No, I don't judge you, I want access to your bookmarks!
Kiita--Where on earth did I get "mother-biting" from? I suppose it just seemed a tad less profane than the other adjective with associate with mothers.
And Kate, I'll see if I can put together a list!
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