Vaginasaurus Rex

So, I've been thinking about something. Dinosaur Tourette's. Twice the childhood nostalgia and half the political correctness of regular Tourette's.

Lot's of potential.

If you don't like that, how about this baby that looks like Chris Farley?

Watch out, the world's behind you...

There's only so much one can take of organic chemistry, really. Only so many hours you can spend drawing letters and lines into snowflakes and snakes with oxygen for eyes.

And yet, despite my careful hours of prodding electrons into their new orbits, I feel very sure I will do horribly on my test tomorrow.

Frankly I've had enough. Aldehydes and ketones be damned.

Everything is frustrating on a Sunday, but nothing more so than getting up early on a March morning. Driving down Madison's wagon-rutted side streets, wanting to go to church just to hear someone sing at you 'depart in peace', and then ending up in your bedroom, alone.

Sometimes I regret painting over the bordello chic purple and mauve that the previous tenant lived in. The yellow I chose is beginning to remind me of the short bus, especially when my dresser is vomiting dirty clothes on the floor.

If it was June, I could leave my windows open and listen to a warm rain. I could fall asleep to the gentle worry of a bum crawling into my room in the night and not have to think about awakening to trek up Bascom Hill--Madison's last great bobsled run.

Instead, I will toss and turn and debate drinking my security whiskey, unable to read myself to sleep because the only books I've started recently are about poverty, terrorism and my white liberal guilt.