Fun Fact Friday – please accept a loose definition of “fun” and if you can find a fact in here, I’ll make you some brownies of love and ship them to you wherever you roam. Although maybe it would be easier for me to just man up here for a few minutes and think of an actual heading. Or not.
I had an MRI yesterday (and though I have the lovliest, most attentive, most thoughtful readership in the universe, please don’t feel obligated to send the “you ok?” emails or comments. I ok. SO not a big deal). People kept telling me really awesome stories about panic attacks and claustrophobia and feeling like being buried in a coffin thankyouverymuch, but it wasn’t bad at all. I dozed off for part of it. Later, the realization I’d been more relaxed while I was lying encased in a plastic tube with an inch and a quarter of space between my forehead and the ceiling, a needle full of reactive dye in my vein, and the dulcet strains of “Footloose” and “SuSuSudio” raping tickling my ears, than I had in weeks sent me right home to the bottle.
Fortunately, it was a good bottle. And to whichever kind soul schlepped it over for Wednesday Spaghetti this week, Karma is now your bestest friend.
My President, perhaps you’ve heard of him? Barack Obama? spent sometime yesterday telling Wall Street criminal types to shove it. I’m pretty sure it was something like that. Well. That’s what I heard. I was happy to hear him sound firm and manly and confident and committed. After his speech we made out for a while. That was also great. Can I go to jail for pretending to make out with the President? Is that a federal offense? Is that federally offensive?
April 23, 2010. It’s Shakespeare’s birthday. In addition to celebrating with cake, everybody should have a little Shakespeare under his/her belt to get through what life throws at you daily.
If he were here to celebrate with us today, I’m pretty sure this is what he’d say:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
Because he’d be 446, and that is one hell of a petty pace.
Feeling amorous? Try this:
For where thou art, there is the world itself, And where thou art not, desolation.
Feeling like somebody needs to be told off? Try these:
Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush.
(You are ) An index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts.
And in his brain which is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage, he hath strange places.
Dissembling harlot, thou are false in all.
He has not so much brain as ear wax.
Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my life.
More of your conversation would infect my brain.
You should be women and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.
Drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine drunk, and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bedclothes about him.
Feeling melancholy? Try this:
Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth
or maybe this
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world.
Sometimes teachers go out for lunch.
What. You don’t?
Come on! Yes, you do!
And besides, if we hadn’t gone out for lunch we never would have discovered This Week’s Secret of the Universe.
Doing cartwheels makes you happy.
Try it. I especially advice a busy sidewalk. People smile. You will, too.
