I will show you where my parents’ house is, Stephen Hawking

because it is a fascinating example of how certain locations can cause a rift in the space-time continuum and actually cause time itself to slow to such a crawl that I am pretty sure it has actually stopped, like my life has become that godawful Adam Sandler movie where he gets a remote control for people except I don’t have the remote control, Adam Sandler does and he paused all of Eugene, Oregon just because he thought it would be funny because hey, paused hippies (actually that does sound kind of funny–faux white-guy dreds in perpetual mid-dance flop). Today I watched "Stick It" on OnDemand, had an embarassingly high number of interactions on Facebook (which I guess is kind of like catching up with old friends which I heard is what some people do during this time of year, people do don’t fucking hate it!), worked a shitload on all of my various research projects (perhaps I am so grumpy because Christmas vacation for everyone else equals super hyperdrive productivity for me or I am overcome, wrenched, utterly miserable-tastic with guilt), and then went with my brother to REI and the mall (THE MALL!), where as a belated Xmahanukwanzah gift he bestowed upon me not the Mr Show box set (that shall remain the holy grail of imaginary gifts until HOW THE FUCK DID AN ANT JUST GET ON M FINGER? WHERE DID THAT ANT COME FROM? WHAT WAS IT DOING BEFORE? WHENCE ART THOU, ANT? IS MY PARENTS’ BUNK BED ROOM HAUNTED WITH ANTS??????? COULD THIS DAY GET ANY MORE ANNOYING?) but instead all the cash that was in his wallet, $100! 1/4 of which I pocketed for further soy latte-based investments but $72 of which I spent on high-end brassieres after a completely disheartening jaunt to Victoria’s godawful Secret two days afore (to expel the contents of a gift card foisted upon me by my dear mother despite my subtle insinuations that I am now too old to fit into cantilever-doube-padded-flying-buttress apparatuses which make it possible to behold one’s busom without looking down which, despite the fashion habits of my students, I do not enjoy). Now I have two high-end brassieres (or as high-end as Eugene can manage brassiere-wise) which, when I wear them, will make me think of my brother, ew. No, not really, they will make me think of brassieres, because that is what they are, and then probably free-associate to the Shel Silverstein poem "They’ve Put a Brassiere on the Camel," and then probably to some other Shel Silverstein poem, and then probably I will mention something Shel Silverstein-related aloud without explaining how I got there and my long-suffering conversational partner will be all like WHAT? ARE? YOU? TALKING? ABOUT? And then I came home and read The Specular Moment for 2 hours and my parents thought I was asleep and yelled at me and then I ate pea soup for dinner and then my dad complained about day two of his "no-dairy" challenge which began as a one-month challenge but has now shrunk down to a one-week challenge but he can still barely do it. And tonight my brother amended the Schuman Family Complaint-Free Week to "perhaps just TRY not to complain so much" vis. my complete failure at being free of complaints, to which I responded with an inordinate amount of silent and not-so-silent shame and a slinking back into the bunk bed room which is apparently covered in ants. And, the preceding treatise which unfortunately does not meet the criteria for my daily dissertation writing goal took me exactly seven seconds to write because in this house TIME HAS STOPPED.*

*Of course I love my family. Jesus H. Christ, calm down. Today my brother was 1/2 an hour late coming home from snowboarding in the morning and I almost sent out the dogs. My brother is 28.

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