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Continuing on my narrative involving chatroom torture, allow me to recount an incident in which I entered the room with the intent of speaking in very broken English to even further the supposition that I was not of sound mind. It begins with a goat.

A goat, you say?

A goat.

It goes a little something like this:

“I have goat. Is good goat. Can have goat. Eat goat.”

Usually this is looked upon with some skepticism. People are unsure as to what I mean. When carnivores speak of dining, as say, on steak perhaps, they state that they are going to have steak, not cow. In retrospect, I do not know if in our culture if goat is even consumed as a meat product. But I digress.

“No, you eat goat. Cook goat then eat goat. Is good”.

This is the point when people really start to get upset. I have discovered that most individuals have a problem with repetition. Either engaging in or being subjected to. My husband hates having to repeat himself. The people in the chat rooms hate hearing me repeat the same phrase repeatedly. We can then safely say that I do not have a problem with repetition. Perhaps their problem was not with the repetition, but with the content. Goats. Why should people have any problem with goats? They are a rather reclusive species. They don’t go tromping through your living room, they aren’t exactly what I would call mainstream in the food preparation industry, and whereas there is such a thing as goat’s milk it is not very common. So the whole goat-phobia I do not yet understand. Perhaps I should conduct a survey on goats and see what turns up from it. I could discover that the whole of the United States is completely terrified of hooved animals.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous goat.

Well, I got my wish. Absolutely dreadful weather today. Now that I’ve got it, not so sure I want it.

Typical.

Spurred by my confinement I have been immersed in those sites that have crossword puzzles, word finds, amongst other miscellaneous web-based games. Help to pass the time. However, for some reason they felt it necessary to integrate chatrooms into the gaming screen. Some people that are home during the day have a very limited vocabulary, and are extraordinarily gullible. For my own amusement, I forayed into one of these chatrooms for the sole purpose of disturbing it’s occupants. The reason it was upsetting to my roommates is because I held a conversation with myself. Observe:

“you want some lunch?”

“Sure…you buying?”

“Nope. I’m gonna cook for you.”

“Bonus. So what’s for lunch?”

“Mouse.”

“Uh…right…umm…so what’s really for lunch?”

“What do you mean, really? I just said, we’re having mouse.”

“I’m not fond of mouse…”

“Come on…You’ll love it. Trust me.”

“Whoah whoah whoah…this, uh, mouse, is not dead…”

“Don’t worry about it. You just have to gnaw through the fur for a while first. It’ll die of blood loss eventually.”

At this point in the conversation some random, rather disturbing, seemingly teenage male interjects, “I want to sex the mouse on the floor!”

Ahem.

So I reply:

“No. No sexing the mouse.”
“There will be no mouse sexing here.”

Exactly how the word “sex” came to be a verb escapes me. I think perhaps the young man was confused. Nonetheless he persisted on continuing the conversation. He was contributing nothing; as a matter of fact I was quite displeased with the interruption of my monologue. It’s a shame. You just can’t meet quality people in chatrooms anymore.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous chatrooms.

We seem to be having meteorological difficulties.

Me and summer seem to be at odds lately. Perhaps I wouldn’t have such an attitude if the weather wasn’t so damn…summery. This is Seattle. This is not what I read in the brochure. I want my money back.

I can only take so much of the sun, pink sequined tank tops, flip-flops and French-manicured toenails. I am a native Washingtonian. I am most psychologically suited to a more somber climate. This Malibu-Barbie-Convertible-Corvette environment gives pause to the idea that alcoholism may not be such bad idea.

Of course, I jest.

About the alcoholism, naturally.

Of course my reluctant imprisionment forced upon me by both my physician and my spouse does little to cast a more pleasant light on my attitude about this particular season. Thanks to a hairline fracure in my 5th metatarsal I am confined within my apartment for an as of yet undisclosed period of time.

Damn biology.

Never thought I’d actually miss work. I’m bored to tears over here.
Okay, I am not going to further document my attitude problem today. I’m going to go watch some Whose Line is it Anyway? at 10:00 pm, if I make it. I’m fi’n ta crash here.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous Whose Line?

That’s it. I’m done. Bloody FTP, SMTP, .com, .html, ,jpg, link, edit, copy, paste, back, forward, server, host, remote, directory, pop3, CSS, coding, format, tables, bloody index.html NO MORE! I don’t know how people do this for a living. Damn if I don’t wish I got paid for the last 3 days of agonizing torture that was creating this infernal site. This is why artists hire other people to make their sites. I am not a technological marvel. I am, however, out of fuzzy water.

Of course now I’m going to embark on the endless nitpicking that will ensue in order to find some imperfection that I overlooked initially. Istanbul is Constantinople, after all.

Bugger.

So, now the question arises: how soon will I completely neglect this blog thing so that future visitors can look upon it and say, “Oh, look at that. Another casualty of the Website Neglection Phenomenon. ‘Tis a pity. The woman was BRILLIANT!”
Okay, so maybe the brilliant thing was going a bit overboard, but the rest warrants merit, as I have uttered the same exclamation visiting the websites of families and friends that have accumulated dust and moss over the years. Judge lest ye be judged.

Quagmire is just disturbing.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous Quagmire.

“Wiggy” is my new word. Spread it around. Use it in every sentence. “Man, that’s wiggy”. A buddy of mine, Ed, likes to combine it with his magnificent French skills. “Voulez voulez voulez-vous wiggy”. Ed asked me to stick my fingers in a Moulinex food processor. I’ve never heard of Moulinex.

Voulez voulez voulez-vous Moulinex.

Apparently, it is a French appliance company. They use them to make crepes and escargot. Crepes. Damn. This limited format prevents me from inserting the proper “circonflex” accent over the ‘e’. The circonflex is the little upside-down ‘v’ doohickee that is commonly referred to as a “carrot top”. Yet I digress.

Sticking escargot in a food processor does not sound all that appealing. Escargot smoothie is not necessarily something that I would consider. Food processors were not intended for everything.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous escargot.

I just watered my bamboo. It seems grateful.

I like my bamboo. It and I have been in a relationship for over a year. We don’t communicate too well verbally; I consider it more of a mental and emotional co-existence.

It is also grateful that I haven’t killed it off yet. I think it may have witnessed the African Violet’s demise. I’ve tried to reassure it that due to its low maintenance requirements it was in no real danger, but I am afraid my assurances of health and longevity are unconvincing.

So I shall tend it and care for it and ensure its survival, for I am fond of my bamboo as I feel it adds a certain aesthetic to my desktop environment.

In the meantime I will consider the possibility that my emotional well-being may in fact hinge on the availability of popsicles and as such, due to a lack of supply, I teeter on the edge of insanity.

I fear the worst.

If anyone has any words of advice or consolation I welcome them in abundance.

So now I shall spend the evening with my mournful bamboo suffering through the predictable DT’s of withdrawal. The tremors have ensued and I eagerly await the hallucinations associated with the discontinuation of frozen concoctions.

Voulez-voulez-vous frozen concoctions.