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Jett Superior laid this on you on || July 28, 2007 || 9:28 pm

These are the sorts of things I talk about when I am drunkdialing. But sometimes I just talk about cherry licorice or my fear of polyester pants.

I just got through checking every stash place in the house where I’ve placed a lighter in the near vicinity of a candle. Each and every one is devoid of the lighter I conscientiously (welllll, maybe on top of the hot water heater is a bit questionable) placed there. Near candles. Because what if a comet causes a tidal wave or some shit like that? That will short the electric circuits in our house*, surely.

Now there are no lighters with which to light the lovely, roughed-up column candles. This means in case of national disaster there will be no casual family gatherings –each of us bringing our little pillars of light to comprise one collective Lighting Force– where we play Monopoly by the warm and comforting glow of Family Participation Reflected In Shining Pools Of Wax.

I mean, who the hell can have an Emergency Action Plan when there are kids around?

Saw this flyer taped to the side of the checkout yesterday. Urged me to stock up in case of crisis. (I do, honey, and once a month all the chocolate and potato chips in this house go uncontrollably into my face. Apparently salty grease and cocoa powder are required to shed the uterine lining properly).

To this particular retail purveyor of my roughage and dairy offerings I say,

Dearest Little Hometown Grocery Store,

Hi. You don’t know much about me, so I feel compelled to tell you that I am the girl who has been having horrible dreams of armageddon since the age of five.

Tonight, while buying fudgsicles and radicchio (okay, goat cheese, as well) in your establishment, there was a flyer about emergency preparedness all up on the cash register for me to panic over. I would like to communicate to you how ill-at-ease I get when thinking of how apeshit the world is gonna go in the not-so-distant future. The most adequate descriptor might be, “My sphincter takes up residence near my epiglottis when pondering the state of this crazy-assed planet.”

As you may be able to imagine, this rather spoils my shopping experience.

Grocery stores should be about comforting things like canned fruit cocktail and somewhat stale coriander and Neosporin Ointment and ginger ale. They should NOT be about hawking cases of bottled water for the end times. The muzak sounds vaguely sinister in such a circumstance, the fluorescent lighting casts a hard and unforgiving light on The Bleakness Of It All.

And me? I just want to put away the greenery, the cheese, the surprise-the-children treat, go home and crawl into my bed. There I would tuck my busy head and my bare feet tightly under the soothing striped comforter and stay right where my dreams are the most horrible thing I experience, forever and ever amen. The Real seems to be getting so very complicated; at least my dreams are relatively finite and I know that they will end with my waking.

I guess it’d be nice if you pulled that fucking five-by-seven piece of Conscious Awakening done in glossy format right on down.

Yours in blind consumerism,

Jett “I’ll get fuckloads of ugly e-mail about this one” Superior

This week I saw the quote “There ain’t nothin’ from the outside that can lick any of us.” I thought about making a piece themed around that idea, but I believe I’m going to stamp that notion with a big ole Fuck That and just go on and paint it directly on the back door. That’s how much I like it, and that’s how much I want to tell the world at large what’s behind that door, all of us shored up in one another; this is despite the leanness and meanness that is all the time growing thinner and more furious while its teeth grow ever larger and more sharp as it stalks around the outside of here.

And me without my strategically-positioned lighters. Guess we better soup up the damn Scrabble board.

I gotta end the entry here. You know, so I can go and start printing out hard copies of [Abuantg.] for future generations to marvel over in the year 250 PI (Poste Interwebnetse). By God, I’ll know greatness at long last. Do you think I should have them bound and gilded? Perhaps autographing them would be a bit much?

*because if a running blender, a lava lamp and a nintendo console can fuck up the switching and juicing in this house, then Lord knows catastrophic happenings will render us stoveless and, more importantly here in the Land of Estrogen, flat-ironless

(Out of all of them I’ve ever seen, I connected the best with this one.)

2 worked it out »

  1. Nina 7.29.2007

    and get some monks to illuminate the bound and gilded gloryness

     
  2. Jettomatika 8.1.2007

    Nina, as ever, you are brilliant.

     

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