Oct 31 2006

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Brigid groaned as she clicked off the TV with the remote. “Geeze, I’m so sick of all this. So much stupidity. So much corruption. You just find yourself staring at the world and wondering how you can stand to get up in the morning. I’m worn out. I can’t take any more angst.”

“Not angst,” said Greg. “Ennui.”

She rolled her head back on the couch and looked over at the table where he was working. “What?”

“A deep-seated feeling of world-weariness is ennui, not angst. Angst is despair arising from doubt and frustration, as in ‘anxiety’. Angst is an emotional crisis; ennui is more of a continual state. Since you’re fed up, rather than freaking out, you don’t have angst. It’s ennui you can’t take any more of.”

She closed her eyes, as if just looking at him were wearing her out. “Thanks,” she said. “Mere words cannot express how grateful I am to you for clearing that up.”

“On the other hand,” Greg continued, “if you just felt vaguely unhappy without any discernible cause, that would be malaise.”

-The Gneech

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Oct 27 2006

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“One of my chief regrets about not having been born British,” Greg said, “is that in a situation like this, I can’t indignantly shout, ‘What a liberty!’ without feeling terribly self-conscious.”

Brigid gave him the ol’ forehead wrinkle and said, “Who are you kidding? You can’t do anything without feeling terribly self-conscious!”

-The Gneech

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Oct 12 2006

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Greg handed the mug to Sharon, who seemed rather surprised that it contained hot chocolate.

“What’s this?” she said, wiping her eyes.

“Cocoa. It’ll help you feel better.”

Brigid wrinkled her eyebrows. “Cocoa? This is your idea of a soothing drink? Don’t we have anything stronger?”

“Of course it is,” said Greg. “Alcohol is a depressant. Cocoa is comforting.”

Sharon took a deep breath to clear her sinuses, held the mug up to her lips, and then was crying again. “Men!” she said. “What good are they? Bastards!”

Brigid and Greg exchanged glances. “So what actually happened?” Brigid asked. “I gather it was something with Thomas–”

“Don’t talk to me about Thomas!” Sharon snapped. “Not after what he did! I hate him! I hate all men! They’re all bastards!”

“Yeah,” said Greg flatly as Sharon quaffed her cocoa. “Nothing but beer-swilling chromosome delivery devices. We’d be better off without ’em.” Brigid shot him a look, and he responded with a resigned roll of his eyes.

“Thomas won’t move in with me,” Sharon finally said. “Not while I’ve got Ozymandias.”

“What?” said Brigid.

“He says he’s allergic to animals and can’t live in the same house with a cat. The jerk! He coulda told me this when we first started dating! How am I supposed to choose between him and Ozymandias? It’s not fair!”

“Wow, that is tough,” Brigid said. “Has he ever said anything about it before?”

“Well, yeah, he wouldn’t spend the night at my place; whenever we stayed together it was always at his apartment. Jerk! What am I supposed to do? I love my little kitty!”

“Seems to me it’s obvious,” said Greg. “Thomas has got to go. You said yourself he’s a jerk.”

“What???” cried Sharon, wide-eyed.

“Will you take a hike, please?” said Brigid. “You’re not helping.”

Greg sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll just go off to my bastardey room and guzzle beer, shall I?”

“You never guzzled beer in your life,” Brigid said. “And besides, you were the one who brought that up, Cocoa Boy. Now beat it!”

-The Gneech

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Oct 02 2006

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“So,” said Brigid. “How was your lunch with Wenton Delaney?”

“Hard to describe,” Greg said. “I knew I was in for an experience when he came roaring up to the Frangipani on a big ol’ Harley Davidson. What a guy! About twelve feet tall, six hundred pounds of raw muscle, and a voice like a Mighty Wurlitzer.”

“Sounds dishy.”

“I suppose so, but it was a bit overwhelming. He gave me the impression that his main goal in life was to meet everyone on the planet between the ages of 22 and 42, so he could fight with all the men, and have sex with all the women.”

“Did you fight him, then?”

“Not exactly. We both wanted to pick up the check, so he finally agreed to thumb-wrestle me for it.”

“Broke your hand, I bet.”

Greg gave a smug grin. “Actually, I won. Pinned him in three.”

Brigid raised her eyebrows. “Holy cats, the man has super thumbs!”

He held up his hands and wiggled his thumbs at her. “Comes from a lifetime of twiddling, is my theory.”

-The Gneech

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