It was ever so gently pointed out to me in an email that I'd been remiss of late in my proposals to impossibly famous (or not-so-famous) men who don't even know I'm alive. So, in keeping with the spirit of my quest:
Hey, Ian Rankin, will you marry me?
Hey, Ian Rankin, will you marry me?
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No wonder I'm not married yet!
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You are...
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Daily Dose of my own cultural illiteracy
For some reason this morning, I thought of that guy we shared the dungeon-like attic closet with at Tech. The one you simultaneously kept perpetually off-balance and in a state of hopelessly unconsumatable (Is that a word? did I just invent a new word?) crush. What the heck was his name???????????
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Martin Brown, where are you?
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Woot!
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Strains of Bewitched
Sounded a bit like...
"Calling Dr. Bombay, Calling Dr. Bombay"
(at least to me....long week)
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Glad to see that really insightful, intelligent people are among the first to notice it.
Incidentally, I intuit that you dropped me off your friends list because there is a certain redundancy with my posts to both my journal and
kalemachka
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Thanks for the recommendation.
It's gotten so bad here that on my vacation last week I read all the the way through three supremely girly novels a friend of mine lent me -- the kind of novel where the townspeople are ethnic and quaint, and nothing of interest really ever happens to anyone. My thanks to authors Anne Lamotte (get over your northern California Jesus fixation please, and get a damn plotline), Lorna Landvik (Fried Green Tomatoes in a the Scandinavian midwest) and some other woman who wrote a love story for a woman in her late 30's who meets the man of her dreams somewhere in Tennessee.
Transport me to Scotland, PLEASE.
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My usual question...