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amy cooper at bargain basement prices
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yesterday, i learned that henrietta is sad. not that it matters once z says she's sorry. although she still doesn't have that yellow paint, so she has to draw a rainy day instead. you know what, it could happen to anyone. not that rainy days are bad, which seems to be one of R's better points of the last few years.
my 18 month old nephew Noah seems to zoom in on the fact that Henrietta is sad. I'm just catching up on my remedial cable TVism, knowing it's all just Beatles homework, which is could just be mary magdalener gypsy stuff, which is just run of the mill (hah, mills, get it?) cable TVism. one of these days i will have a million years to do all this sort of homework. until then, they've got me reading paolo freire and wishing it was schopenhauer. i do feel sorry for john lennon. paul mccartney, not so much. and my brother, on the other hand, wants a pretty nice crib for the new baby.
no, really, i do want to read schopenhauer. did i spell that right?
i don't want to be stuck in this beatles stuff.
in other news, me and my bobby mcgee has got that "old man" vibe, although at least she works some magic with her all her na-na-nas, but i still don't truly like the song, but have trouble coming up with something better that's not the thievery corporation.
(it's the talking cure. it's a freud impression. not bad literature if you ask me. freud minus that civilization book i guess. isn't it all just a little too, umm, funny-ish? did you want the analysis? (no? so is it some sort of a pity?)) (probably) one of those rainy day scenarios. freud didn't have the yellow paint. he's sorry!
(...me and my bobby mcgee....)
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