22.02.05..4:23 pm

I. Do. Not. Like. My. Post Modern. Prof.

He is UNBELIEVEABLY condescending, he doesn't listen, he harps on about something asking you time and time and time again what THE RIGHT answer is because he KNOWS the RIGHT answer but no one else does and so he sits there with pregnant pauses that go three weeks beyond normal gestation until you end up giving birth to some mutated nonanswer, a nonbeing of inarticulate boorish tripe and he gives the class a half wry grimace and say, 'Well actually I was thinking about this..." and then procedes to say EXACTLY what you just said.

In less Dr. Uphisownass, I presume, news yesterday I was not only invited into the Flock of Jehovah, but accidently stumbled upon the Sanctuary of Praise (where missionaries frolic piously, but you have to be careful not to spook them with heresey, them stampede), so it looks like there's a special spot all carved out for me in the Heaven place after all.

Also Hunter S Thompson just shot himself.

Fucker.

There's a good article in the G2 today about it though.

I got not one but TWO parcels in the post this weekend. The first was from a very dear old friend of mine, an earlier birthday present of knitty woolly purple legwarmers she made herself (I'm not sure which part of that to emphasise heavily, so consider it all). I pranced (PRANCED!) nakedly wearing only them until M pounced and wrestled them off in a most delicious manner. The second was more music journo related. Actually, entirely music journo related: four CDs, three of them to review (two singles and a full length) the other to keep because my editor thought I'd like it (Aw!)

****meep. Not herself.