Everything is almost (but not quite) preternaturally lovely. My family is outstanding. Holy everything―the monstrously cute kindness of the youngsters, and Molly’s inordinate, exquisite wondrousness. I dunno what on earth a person can do in these situations, except be like, “Oh my word.”
Don't think that a birthday change is in the stars or cards or tea leaves or entrails for me. See, this is Mariah Carey's birthday, and I had wanted to switch over to Mr. T.'s birthday. But I neglected to satisfactorily solve this puzzle. Now, it's become clear: Mariah Carey and Mr. T. are the same person. Tell everyone; this is fucking HUGE.
I’m standing in the kitchen, entering this texty matter like I’m at a customer-service desk, looking up some item for some poopbutt. In fact, I’m having a retroactive fantasy of typing contrarian bits under the guise of "assistance" at a customer-service desk in a bygone retail situation. (How about a record store? I'll be the Associate.)
CUSTOMER: Yeah, like, um, do you have, like, Linkin Park?
ASSOCIATE: Let me take a look, sir. We’re showing…
CUSTOMER: What, you have it?
ASSOCIATE (frantically typing “chunchy chunchy eerm eerm eerm eerm eerm”): Sir, I’m looking. The system is just slow today. You know how it is. Yeah, it doesn't look good.
CUSTOMER (undeterred): Well, fuckin, when does the new Insane Clown Posse come out?
ASSOCIATE: (frantically typing “Ctrl+Alt+Del") Oh, Jeez. Listen, the computer is crashing again. I think you’ll just have to look yourself. They’re arranged alphabetically. Just remember―i before e.
CUSTOMER: Yeah, thanks.
It’s been a wonderful birthday. People are genuinely the most.
