No Pigs on the Futon
Below are the 10 most recent journal entries recorded in the "Pope William T Wodium" journal:
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Setting Orange the Twenty-Seventh of Discord in the Year CUV
Too late to post in the Machine of Death
She eschewed procreational action
An effort at lifespan protraction
She tried to cheat death
'till the snake stole her breath
Her slip read: EXTENDED CONTRACTIONS
- Pope William T Wodium
Pretend the second sentence is the subject line |
Pungenday the Seventy-Third of Chaos in the Year CUV
The Hot Chocolate From Cookie experiment1 can be safely declared a "qualified success."
The primary quality is failure.
I began with a less ambitious attempt to make chocolate milk from the cookie, with hot chocolate in mind as a possible extension if I was initially successful (an option I later turned to as, instead, a recourse in the face of failure.) To this end, I poured a half-inch of milk into a short, stout glass, dropped in the cookie, and proceeded to employ the blunt handle of a butter knife as a pestle.
A little ways into the cookie-mashing process, it became apparent that my tools were inadequate to the task.2 The chocolaty wafer forming the body of the cookie would crunch up readily enough (obligingly forming hundreds of little crumbs dispersed throughout the milk that I don't believe realized they were supposed to dissolve), but the solid chocolate coating was distinctly uncooperative, squishing about and forming clumps and sticking to the knife and generally making a nuisance of itself. On top of this, the knife base wasn't able to get the chunks into small enough pieces for me to be satisfied calling the mixture "chocolate milk"; even after I added more milk and tried stirring thoroughly, drinking it was a little like being a whale in reverse.3 Clearly, this would not do.
Pouring the stuff into a mug, rinsing the dregs out of the glass and into the mug via the application of additional milk, and microwaving the result for about a minute produced the aforementioned qualified success. It was hot, and chocolate, and milk, but the entire mixture was disturbingly heterogeneous. Little chocolate specks swirled throughout in two different colors (and, oddly, in different directions), and the meniscus overtop it was perfectly clear and played host to a array of lipid globules (which I presume hailed from the original chocolate coating).
While the appearance was disconcerting, it was palatable, and with the addition of a half-tablespoon of sugar became pretty good. I'm already thinking of doing it again,5 but initially mashing the cookie while still dry and with hot chocolate in mind from the beginning. Less milk and more sugar, methinks. Or perhaps if I were to suck the chocolate coating off beforehand . . .
Next entry, stuff about my life of presumed to be of potential interest to the typical person. Or not!
1Some background: a good friend of mine from Chapel Hill, who shall go nameless here on the off-chance she values her anonymity, visited me last weekend bearing two varieties of cookie, both chocolate. One was a milk-chocolate variety irrelevant to this entry, but the other was dark, and had such a powerful element of cocoa that I could not bring myself to finish the cookie I had selected, even with the assistance of a stout glass of milk. It was finely constructed and culinarily sound, but I can only enjoy dark chocolate in certain measured quantities, and my fortitude is insufficient to consume one of these cookies entire. Unwilling to forgo consumption of these cookies, and equally unwilling to snack on the same solitary cookie all week by eating 20% at a time with the aid of five glasses of milk, I devised a number of schemes by which this batch of confections might be more fully utilized - of which, this scheme was the first.
2A poor craftsman blames his tools. I am no exception.
3Strain out the tiny bits and don't swallow them.4
4Actually, I did try nibbling the detritus off the rim of glass. It was pretty good that way, but definitely not the effect I was going for.
5Indeed, this entry is partly for the benefit of Paul, who took a handful of the relevant cookies back with him to school and assured me that he would attempt some of the potential experiments which we discussed.
Current Mood: analytical
Tags: 5 footnotes, chaos, cookie, experiment, failure, macradical, next entry, pungenday
What's better than art?|Boomtime the Forty-Fifth of Aftermath in the Year CUTArt on Toast
(Also, I am now employed at [Financial-Institution]; grunt-work only, training still in progress, but I hear rumors that I will be paid in money.)
Forty minutes, now.|
Pungenday the Thirty-Fifth of Aftermath in the Year CUT
It is the twenty-third of November and my twenty-third birthday.1 These things are numerologically significant by Discordian reckoning, and they feel significant to me. Or, they do tonight, at least, on the large couch in my uncle's house in Carrboro, while the rain makes rhythms on the gutters outside and I keep glancing at my computer clock to check the number of minutes that have elapsed since I realized that it was technically the morning and spontaneously sang Happy Birthday to myself.2
I'm bringing back the footnotes, by the way, out of nostalgia. It's a sort of self-reference to my old ways of doing things.3
I noticed that not many comfortable things rhyme with "job" and fit into a Happy Birthday tune.
I'm staying in my fourth house this week, making my peace with my third and fourth cat in that same period. Cats are social, territorial creatures, just as we, and I like to think of my impromptu tour of North Carolina as a cat-seeing tour as much as anything else. I've cleaned out a greenhouse, attended a play festival, won the Question Game in a three-story stairwell wherein no two stories were alike, and driven a few hundred miles in between. I feel as though gathering the pieces of an intangible Triforce - not noticing each piece I acquire, moving on when I have what I need.
I'll cross my own path this evening when I head back to Charlotte, hopefully arriving in time to have a piece of my own birthday cake. I'm lingering here to visit the campus in its waking capacity, with the buildings full of faculty and the offices full of staff. I was there yesterday - Saturday - but the place was dormant, the only residue of life lingering in those places exhaling steam or excreting coffee and bagels.
This will be an important year, I think. My uncertainty as to how only underscores that supposition in my mind. I want this to go well.
1I suppose I ought to go ahead and add my age to my profile information now that I've let that little secret slip, eh?
2Eighteen, at present - that is, 2:16 - but the clock changed precisely as I typed "at present," bringing my fears to fruition and rendering that count an inaccuracy.
3That seems as though it ought to have been a footnote, somehow.
It's a number, too|
Boomtime the Sixty-Sixth of Confusion in the Year CUT
Tonight, I read a sentence in which the author wrote "too" when he meant the numeral. Somewhere during my moment of pained shock, I realized that I had never actually seen this particular error before. It was my first time.
It was painful.
I thought I would share.
Health Care|Setting Orange the Forty-Ninth of Confusion in the Year CUT
I have things to say and announce that are important to me, but this is more important to everyone else (in the US).
Sweetmorn the Fifty-Fourth of Aftermath in the Year CUS_______________
My early morning, as I work on my last final paper (not redundant, read it again), has been considerably brightened by the discovery that UNC's Frank Porter Graham Student Union, in which I have logged many an hour of caffine-addled productivity and many more of psudeo- or just plain non-productivity, actually contains (and presumably has contained, all this time) a Lactation Room. It says so beside the door.
[Sign-style pictograph of a woman with a deep
(and decidedly lopsided) V-neck collar,
holding to her chest what might be an infant
(or possibly an oversized Parcheesi piece)]
Why was I not informed?
Pungenday the Sixteenth of Aftermath in the Year CUS
It's late and I'm tired and I have things I should do before tomorrow (that is, before sunup) instead of writing here, but if I don't do it now I likely won't, because, y'know. Busy.
So there I was on the couch in my on-campus apartment, watching the final few minutes of the Stewart-Colbert coverage, when two things happened at once: A giant picture of Obama's face appeared on-screen as Jon Stewart called the election for Obama; and my cell phone rang. Answering, I was greeted with the Latin (which I have since forgotten) for "All hail the Caeser!"
Outside our fourth story window I could hear yelling and screaming from the students that had begun to flood the street while I tried to get an explanation of the Latin from one Ms. Barkley and pay attention to the last bits of the Indecision '08 finale at the same time. I felt a strange, subdued elation - subdued because I've been confident in Obama's victory for the past two weeks, but strangely still powerful, affecting. Of course the real issue at stake was the size of the new Senate majority; of course the only real uncertainty was whether my home state, reliably red North Carolina, would finally do the right thing and go blue for Obama as the polls seemed to suggest it might. But still. And yet.
A little later there was champagne, courtesy of a flatmate. I purposely avoided watching the news network coverage of the election this year, resolving to replace those mindless hours of obsessive speculation with a single one-hour slot hosted by my two favorite satirical newsmen. I still ended up check Yahoo's "political dashboard" more than was healthy (i.e., more than once in twenty minutes), and I was too worked up to fix dinner until after the announcement. It took an hour to wind down, too, so I wasn't cooking 'til twelve nor eating 'til one. Such is life.
There was some political discussion in the apartment during that wind-down period. I felt a certain glee at not having to care at all about what was said. "Well I guess we'll see," I said. "Too late now," I said, "he's in office.
Current Mood: recumbent
Boomtime the Forty-Third of Bureaucracy in the Year CUS
On September nineteenth, for the fourth or fifth year,
I've writ up a verse an' I've posted it here,
So hoist the black flag an' let out a stout cheer,
Fer today be the day what we speak Buccaneer!
Ahoy, me maties! An' ye like it or nay,
'Tis International Talk Like a Pirate Day,
So wheree'er ye go an' whate'er ye say,
Be sure and ye do it the pirate way!
Prickle-Prickle the Thirty-Sixth of Discord in the Year CUS
I learned a new word! Watch:
"The Force can have a strong influence on the pusillanimous."
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