Vanity thy name is Flaming.
So hello there, people. After those half-dozen half-hearted why-the-hell-aren't-ya-blogging-anymore emails, you must've given up on me. I won't hold it against you, really I won't. Well maybe just a little. (I mean, dude, where are the chain-mail petitions?)
If you must know, what got me back to Baguetting was a little gem of a blog called For Inertness. Scroll down to the bottom and, just under the Blogroll header, wedged between 'anveshi' and 'seekingconnections', what do you see? Oui, c'est moi! What an ego-boost.
Inertness. Strange blog-name for someone with more energy than a Duracell bunny. This is a girl who--my earliest memory of her--leaped over the counter and kissed the bartender out of the blue. The kind of girl whose very presence is like a cinnamon bomb and a Stone Temple Pilots song rolled into one. During a particularly severe winter, when we were snowed in, and I was holed up in a freezing attic with a raging fever, she trudged across town to take care of me and make me noodle soup... and yet, she probably doesn't even remember it, because she'd do it for anyone. (If you think you detected a trace of bitterness in that last bit, you're wrong, wrong I tell you! Phrases like 'trace of bitterness' ought to be retired and banned and abolished, among other things. Yeah.)
So just a few days after aforementioned propositioning by mail-room clerk at the Beard, I gave notice and moved to sunnier climes. I'm tempted to say that I would rather flip burgers than set foot in a newspaper office again, but my peculiar weakness is the rapidity with which my most frustrating experiences acquire a rosy tint of nostalgia. Good times.
If you must know, what got me back to Baguetting was a little gem of a blog called For Inertness. Scroll down to the bottom and, just under the Blogroll header, wedged between 'anveshi' and 'seekingconnections', what do you see? Oui, c'est moi! What an ego-boost.
Inertness. Strange blog-name for someone with more energy than a Duracell bunny. This is a girl who--my earliest memory of her--leaped over the counter and kissed the bartender out of the blue. The kind of girl whose very presence is like a cinnamon bomb and a Stone Temple Pilots song rolled into one. During a particularly severe winter, when we were snowed in, and I was holed up in a freezing attic with a raging fever, she trudged across town to take care of me and make me noodle soup... and yet, she probably doesn't even remember it, because she'd do it for anyone. (If you think you detected a trace of bitterness in that last bit, you're wrong, wrong I tell you! Phrases like 'trace of bitterness' ought to be retired and banned and abolished, among other things. Yeah.)
So just a few days after aforementioned propositioning by mail-room clerk at the Beard, I gave notice and moved to sunnier climes. I'm tempted to say that I would rather flip burgers than set foot in a newspaper office again, but my peculiar weakness is the rapidity with which my most frustrating experiences acquire a rosy tint of nostalgia. Good times.
