A) I’m all about keeping it Kate Bush-ish (Bush-y?) this summer.
B) Like whoa. Wales, what do they put in the water over there?
C) Guess what? I am not a robot and I want to have your space babies lady.
Fun fact: The answer is always “C”.
Not that I really think anything else about Michael Jackson really needs saying, but… the first gift I remember receiving was a copy of Thriller and the Fisher-Price record player that turned on when you closed the top. I was four. So, I was really pretty bummed about MJ. Like a lot. Which, besides the vaginal seafood, is kind of the big thing about living in another country.
Because when something big and sort of spiritually wounding happens, you can’t help but be re-reminded of how very far you are from most of the people who also got that Fisher-Price record player and a copy of Thriller when they were four. So instead of the communal grieving you crave, you end up trying to explain what it means to be from a place where a black/white, victim/predator sings you your lullabies to an Australian who doesn’t care.
Which, besides the vaginal seafood, is kind of the best thing about living in another country… getting to realize how lucky you are to be from a place where a black/white, maniac/genius, victim/predator sang us to sleep.
Things change fast in the world of I’m Not Feeling You. It can be hard to keep track. But, it has recently come to my attention that since I moved to a magic place, I’m Not Feeling You no longer seems to be the twice-daily comedy fantasia it once was. I’ve heard you ask, is it weekly? Biweekly? Monthly? Seasonal?
Perhaps it all of those things. Maybe it’s more. An elusive magical beast? A lost civilization appearing and disappearing on a whim? Or is it a dream too real to touch? A reality too ephemeral to dream?
A) Corn dogs covered in french fries? Yeah they do.
B) I’m not 12 so I can look at this and not think about sex toys.
C) French Tickler.
The answer is “C”.