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Mr. Emery's Indefatigable Undergarments
<procastination> I, for one, suspected from the first that Mr. Emery
might own Wonder Woman Underoos. It's okay. Inexplicable, but okay.
Still, I'm sure, not as powerful as Vogel Mojo.
Hi.
Yup. Missed the show. Blame it on graduate school. Stinking, filthy
graduate school.
I have to read Portrait of a Lady. I notice it's long. And by Henry
James. I check my email instead of starting. These letters represent
procrastination.
Or, I should say, I intend them to, and I try to preserve the context by
reporting it. But the ghost of Jacques Derrida is in my room chortling,
"Hahaha, American fool. There is no context. The signs were seperated
from you at the moment of their inscription! Hahaha. Stupid man. The
signs have a generative power that is beyond you. Your control is an
illusion. I am Derrida."
I challenge him to arm wrestle; he squeals, runs away, hides in the
dustiest corner of my dustiest book shelf. I think he understood. I
tell him I respect him, but he failed to reconnect his philosphy to
morality, and that's important whether he thinks so or not.
I listen to OtR.
Sleep Baby Jane is amazing.
I just introduced my new neighbor to GDBD. It is a good deed for the
day, and his life will be better.
Later, cats.
Fred
</procastination>