Everybody needs to have some kind of a help desk.
—Kit Robinson
Outlook’s really slow today. Is that happening to you, too? Plus
I’m really bored. If I wrote you a poem in the shape of Minnesota,
which described all of my symptoms, would you play along with me?
Nothing’s really interesting unless there’s a chance it might
all lead up to a game of naked Twister. I’m too busy
trying to figure out whether, if we’ve slept together,
what is it, four times over the last two weeks, does
that mean we’re dating? And what’s with this
purported ‘asexual movement’ anyway?
How does one go about compartmentalizing so? I listen
to my friends’ lists: this one I only sleep with, and only on
Fridays, this one no kissing, this one only webcam, if we met
in person we’d spontaneously combust, this one whenever I’m in
New York, this one only at 3 in the morning after my husband’s
taken an Ambien, and this one I don’t dare hint around at any-
thing sexual or romantic because he’s a total keeper. Huh?
Where's Dr. Phil when you really need him, right?
Anyway, I’ve never asked David out or anything.
But who’s horny and has a 4-day weekend?
I HATE HIM!
Is this problem a ‘nice to have’? I think I’d rather
wait til the sequel. I hear it’s a poem in the shape of Alaska
starring Beau Bridges and Julianne Moore. The icecaps have
melted (it’s futuristic!) and the general mood is very Mad Max
(Beyond Thunderdome), but our Julianne has a plan. Something
that involves the entire cast in a desparate and highly competitive
race to what was once Juneau to locate a trash heap of old cellphones.
It’s got a killer soundtrack. But what I’m really here to tell you is
IT WINS THE ACADEMY AWARD FOR BEST COSTUMES!
OK, now I know why I’m suddenly nostalgic for New York.
So you can go back to your fretting over whether or not Iran
has the bomb. Or whatever it was you were doing over there.
