Scans, monitoring. Good nurses, bad nurses. Ghastly consultant. Pisco. Off work, aquarium, belugas, ponytail, triangle. Readings. Monitoring, scans. This Tuesday. Baby. Tummy. Out. Hi! Woah.
I can have an expensive haircut today, or a cheap haircut next Saturday.
Whatever option I choose, paying for a haircut annoys me because I have quite fine hair, so on a per-hair basis I’m paying a lot more than most. Would it be so hard for barbers to weigh the hair removed and charge accordingly? Would that be an insurmountable challenge for our snip-happy friends?
Apparently it would.
Risk Coordinator, Risk Services, Risk Group
- recently-created position at my place of business.
Dear santa, (not the one
who hails from Lapland
and is generally beloved,
but this simulacrum,
this plastic Garganta
on the roof opposite me),
you blaze in ways
unrecorded by apostles;
you pronounce, right arm raised,
your secular decree:
peace on earth through trade,
and beneficial impiety.
Poppar. To pop. E.g. “¡Caramba! Mis oídos están poppando.”
In an attempt to block out the moronic American action movie, volume at max and picture jerking spasmodically on the TV screens as my bus corkscrewed down out of the Andes, I draped my fleece over my face and set my MP3 player to repeat the only polka tune in my collection until all my conscious being had bled entirely out of my quaking eardrums, leaving me a mere husk.
But still, in between repetitions, “roger that, we’ve got another SWAT team on the way…”