Thanks for allowing me to stay home and work from my bed, in my 'jamas. I think that's totally rad and a great Christmas present. However, in the face of the 11-day transit strike back in '80, and the fact that most people don't have the balls to ask for crazy-ass raises and benefits, as well as the billions that will be lost because of the strike, I do have to second Kat from Bitch on the Street in saying "So you want to retire at 50. Who doesn't? I have to wait until I'm 62...you should too."
Thanks again, Bitches!
JAYE: "It doesn't mean anything."
Wonderfalls, episode "Muffin Buffalo"
this show kind of RULES.
...then the killer flu struck and we were screwed because we hadn't been able to afford our island compound.
please play along
everything you say
can and will be used against me
so damn it, sing with the verses,
so we can't say the words
it broke the bank, the last coin in the dark
the clink of the ice in the lees of my drink
like coins in little grandma coin-purses
though even there, they fall far
all the way to the bottom
my heart is broken, it's broken
vanessa: what's that sound?
vanessa: it sounds like you're stepping on ducks
vanessa: no, wait, maybe it sounds like you're juggling ducks
tory: and i'm biting their heads off
vanessa: you'll run out of them very quickly if you do that, and have to order more
tory: they last forever if you videotape them
Rest you at the water
this is the strange classroom
where the test is being given and taken
this floor is like a ship on the sea
the light from the windows is cold
the tide is going out forever, the questions lack answers
and our teacher will not see.
my classmates are crying, sleeping, scratching their ears and their heads,
shuffling their exam papers like oversized tarot cards
but the future is elsewhere
this is the ship that crossed time
the pirates that come aboard are shot with revolvers, and slung overboard like anchors
they sink into black water-dreams
this ship crosses over minutes of sheet-rustling and pillow breath, buoyantly
deep in the heart of our vessel, where the youngest children hide, is the ice room.
if you open the porthole window, you can smell the sweetest air in the world.
drink your tea, lean out over the sea.
we are coming to a stop,
the avenue comes to an end at a red brick wall.
beyond it is a mystery, sleeping,
but it's time to get up:
when ships come to port in a paved lot -
when the dark companion evaporates -
and there's light coming in from the shutters -
from white drops of melted snow