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My very own stalker

For the past few days Lisa and I have been calling each other and leaving voicemails where we just breathe heavily into the receiver for a few moments and then hang up. We’re both quite pleased with the arrangement.

It was a slow day on the Ave, so the Greenpeace people had very little to keep them occupied, which spelled trouble for yours truly. My current hairstyle (which has been referred to as shaggy, hippy, emo-mullet, penis-head, unkempt, and my personal favorite, Eric Foreman) draws them like a moth to a flame. I fear Greenpeace representatives as a mogwai fears the sun, and with good reason: the minute one of them spots me, they start whispering furiously among themselves as I approach. Once I’m within “attack distance,” (official Greenpeace term) they fling down their clipboards in unison and charge me head on, bellowing their mighty battle cry of “For the Rainforest!” Today I was ready for them, and got the leader in a headlock and began to rain blows upon him, punctuating each hit with phrases like “Conserve this, bitch!” and “Let’s see your precious spotted owl save you now!” His two confederates hissed menacingly at me, then dropped to all fours and ran down the construction lane, howling like demons.

Actually, I just told the guy I was on my way to work and he told me to have a nice day. But then I ran into Brett and accompanied him back south to the UBookstore, where the neo-hippies have their stronghold. I was afraid they’d see me and say “Wait a minute… that guy didn’t have to go to work at all!” and then a scene like the above would be played out to its grisly denouement. I made Brett sneak through the side entrance like a thief in the night to avoid bloodshed, or at least some poignant awkwardness.

I leave you with an away message from Lisa:

a morning of misery, a week of austerity, a lifetime of gluttony, an away message of the highest pretension. May we all find our own magical space elevator to the sky!

Posted in Musings.


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