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Jan. 17th, 2017 05:09 am"Artichoke hearts are back! But in mustard marinades!"
"More relaxing than yoga! You roll down a hill like a kid and wherever you stop you lie there and try to count every blade of grass touching you! The number is your spirit's bar code!"
"Toothpastes are sprays now!"
"Hip-hop but with tubas!"
"Nasal sex!"
"Rice with breakfast!"
"Victorian scruples!"
"Cones!"
Exclamation marks were back in style on magazine covers and magazines were back in. At the bookstore, now half magazine aisles, hundreds of people were lying about on sbrajas (beanbag chairs but flatter and Y-shaped) amid piles of exclaiming magazines (damaging magazines at the store was in now, compensated for by dropping all your spare change into glass spittoons). I asked one where the drinking fountain was and she told me to go outside and use the newly installed urban water pump.
On the way I passed some books. The girl with the girl on her girl trend had given way to pansexual young adult romance stories set in early '90s malls, a vein only now petering out. By the looks of things self-help / home repair / choose your own adventure hybrids would soon overtake them. I picked one up on my way back in, titled "Do You Yourself volume 6: Sealing the Mind Kitchen." Its front and back covers were tiles - all entries in the DYY series integrated relevant household objects or materials . Foil, seed packets, wicker, tiny drawers full of nonstandard screws. Most striking was a deconstructed clock, the hands of which somehow intelligibly told the time.
I was late for being as pointlessly early as I wished to be (now a common concern), so was irritated when stopped just before the first set of double doors out (of which now there were always three) by someone volunteering me my fortune. A contest the previous year to come up with worthy new fortune cookie fortunes, replacing the tired old ones, had led to a sort of adult game of tag where one transferred being "it" by blurting an impromptu and overintimate prophecy at a stranger. "Life is a used up colouring book, by one's middle years. The choice is to deepen the hues on the page or draw over them with new ones till it's all just bluish-copper." I told him his lucky numbers were fuck and off then drove home, but thought about that little speech while drinking celery-flavoured near beer from a glass that was all one tangle of extra length crazy straw. Surely there was some other choice one could make, some way to erase the colours or add virgin pages. A magazine might know. Should I go back?
"More relaxing than yoga! You roll down a hill like a kid and wherever you stop you lie there and try to count every blade of grass touching you! The number is your spirit's bar code!"
"Toothpastes are sprays now!"
"Hip-hop but with tubas!"
"Nasal sex!"
"Rice with breakfast!"
"Victorian scruples!"
"Cones!"
Exclamation marks were back in style on magazine covers and magazines were back in. At the bookstore, now half magazine aisles, hundreds of people were lying about on sbrajas (beanbag chairs but flatter and Y-shaped) amid piles of exclaiming magazines (damaging magazines at the store was in now, compensated for by dropping all your spare change into glass spittoons). I asked one where the drinking fountain was and she told me to go outside and use the newly installed urban water pump.
On the way I passed some books. The girl with the girl on her girl trend had given way to pansexual young adult romance stories set in early '90s malls, a vein only now petering out. By the looks of things self-help / home repair / choose your own adventure hybrids would soon overtake them. I picked one up on my way back in, titled "Do You Yourself volume 6: Sealing the Mind Kitchen." Its front and back covers were tiles - all entries in the DYY series integrated relevant household objects or materials . Foil, seed packets, wicker, tiny drawers full of nonstandard screws. Most striking was a deconstructed clock, the hands of which somehow intelligibly told the time.
I was late for being as pointlessly early as I wished to be (now a common concern), so was irritated when stopped just before the first set of double doors out (of which now there were always three) by someone volunteering me my fortune. A contest the previous year to come up with worthy new fortune cookie fortunes, replacing the tired old ones, had led to a sort of adult game of tag where one transferred being "it" by blurting an impromptu and overintimate prophecy at a stranger. "Life is a used up colouring book, by one's middle years. The choice is to deepen the hues on the page or draw over them with new ones till it's all just bluish-copper." I told him his lucky numbers were fuck and off then drove home, but thought about that little speech while drinking celery-flavoured near beer from a glass that was all one tangle of extra length crazy straw. Surely there was some other choice one could make, some way to erase the colours or add virgin pages. A magazine might know. Should I go back?
