So today, in the cold hours between lunch and a mass display of misguided avarice and petty greed, we played "Guess ze Cryptic Association", or "Crap Hangman". I dip into the collective pool of inventiveness that seepeth from sloth: Penis, Star Wars - Ewan. Cher, Madonna - Botox. Cult - Hotel California. Million, Berry - Swordfish. Autumn, Mermaids - Winona.
Already craving new ties, lush maroony braids and serpents in neutrals and beigy ones and checked kingpin shockers. Atwood writes so well it's painful to read her, and I find myself identifying with each character, which isn't healthy at all, and it's just lovely. I think I need blue cloaks and kohled eyes, olive skin, and a pleasure boat slipping up some greenish-silver Mesopotamian tributary into the sun.
|