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breeden
ursulav

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I'd like to thank everybody who so kindly commented--I feel better now. Ebulliance has not quite triumphed, but it's got the bastard cornered, so we're on the right track. The nap helped. (I had this very...Mary Sueish dream. Which is only sensible, since I AM actually the main character, but nevertheless, it was very strange and appeared to be very tortured plot about a bratty princess and a troop of dragon-riding mercenaries, and I woke up going "I don't need to worry about my art--my subconscious is the hack!")

But anyway, you guys all rock. I felt better for having read the encouragement (and yes, the notion of someone screaming "VEERRRNOONNN!" in the snow still makes me grin. 'Course, I'm the voice screaming "CHRISTIAAAANSEEENNNN!" from down the block, so who'm I to talk?) Anyway, I promise not to whine again for a good long time. Well, not about feeling insecure. I retain the right to whine about other things.

Like bunnies. I think my bunny whining quotient for the year is still wide open.


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See, I didn't comment earlier because I read your post and all I could think was, "What the hell, Vernon, wallow in it. Enjoy it, 'cause we all know you'll get over it soon enough." :)

*laugh!* I am obviously just not depressed enough to be a serious artist.

I'll cultivate an absinthe habit. Maybe that'll help.

Ursula! I invite you to go look at your own Holstein Iris, or Get With Child a Mandrake Root, or Snorkus, Liberator of Goldfish, and then I *ask* you: do you *really* want to *dare* absinthe? I mean, look at the weird shit you come up with sober! The world may not be *ready*, nay, the world may not *survive*, Vernon On Green Fairy Drink!

Think of the children, woman! Think of the children!

It could end up working like ritalin with hyperactive children, though, and make her more normal.

I refuse to drink or experiment with any sort of drugs because I'm random and eccentric enough as it is. I've convinced myself I have an overactive dopamine gland (there are glands for that, right? Eesh, maybe that's the problem!) and probably a jealous anti-dopamine gland (for the sake of celerity we'll call it "dumpamine") and therefore have no need for any kind of stimulant or depressant because it sort of takes care of itself when I want it to. My friends tell me I'd probably be a "quiet" drunk...but I don't want to risk it. Fear? Oh yes. Fun? Probably. Anyway, keep of the absinthe. ...Whatever that is.

Absinthe, beloved of many Serious Artists back in the day, is a green liquor distilled from wormwood. The active ingredient, thujone, causes progressive nerve damage, making an absinthe drinker increasing twitchy and batshit crazy, to the point where you could escape being drafted in various European armies by claiming an absinthe habit.

It's now illegal everywhere except Spain, where presumably they figure that if you're dumb enough to drink it, you deserve whatever happens to you.

It's now illegal everywhere except Spain, where presumably they figure that if you're dumb enough to drink it, you deserve whatever happens to you.

I pretty much sympathize with that philosophy. :)

Good gracious, a heartfelt thank-you AND a history lesson! Your posts are the greatest, Ursula! XD

Really, though, this gives me yet another reason to love my adopted long-distance home (if that makes any sense at all). The Spanish culture is always so rich with vibrance and ironicism and, uh, spicy food...but moreover the ironicism. I mean, these are the people who turned out Cervantes, Goya, Dali (the latter probably an absinthe habitist himself)...the contributions to modern satiric thought there are astounding.

That "dumb and deserve it" policy seemed pretty clear on my visit there last summer, especially on a particularly trendy street in Madrid, a city where prostitution is completely acceptable unless the storeowners on the crowded streets place bold notices, apparently on banners in meter-high bold text, reading no prostitutión en la calle, in which case they have to move about five feet to the right or left where the next crowded shop owner doesn't even care anymore. This should have been our first hint, and I probably could have avoided being chased after by an angry hooker at 9:30 at night (...not as long a story as you'd think, and not at all dirty) but I've never been a good one at reading signs.

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