So this evening, while frying tortillas for dinner (bastardized Mexican. See, I’m allergic to peppers, and I don’t really like spicy food, so fried tortillas are pretty much the only thing that makes my tacos Mexican at all. Otherwise they’re just ground beef cooked with garlic, onion, Worcestershire, and soy [it really is tasty] and served with some cheese. Anyway.) I was frying the tortillas and somehow managed to dip the middle finger of my left hand into the boiling oil.
Now that was fun.
After I finally managed to get my finger out from under the cold tap, and after eating and it still hurt, and after I had some ice cream and it still hurt, I headed for the medicine cabinet. I could have taken some ibuprofin or paracetemol (because we don’t have Advil or Tylenol here), but then I remembered. I still have some Percocet left over from when the Faery was born and I forced my doc to give me plenty. (See, when Princess was born he didn’t give me enough, and I never let him forget it.)
Long story short? I am high as a kite right now, my friends. Not only does my finger not hurt, I seriously don’t think I could feel pain if I tried. I’m awfully thirsty, though.
So I was going to do some real writing work tonight but in the mood I’m in, I don’t think it’s a good idea.
And, they finally announced the release date for the last Harry Potter book! Yay! July 21st! I’m of two minds about this. On the one hand, July 21st can not come fast enough. On the other, my husband turns 35 on the 16th of July and I am not looking forward to the weeks of “I’m so old” conversations. Even less am I loking forward to turning 34 on August 11th. No, not looking forward to that one at all. So I want July 21st to happen, then just stay the 21st for several more months. Like Groundhog Day, only…in July, and without Bill Murray. (Although I freaking adore Bill Murray, so he’s certainly welcome to come along.) I can’t wait for the book, though. I’m thinking of trying to convince hubs to take me to Edinburgh. Maybe JK Rowling will show up.
And I had a cigarette two days ago, because he was having one, but it was eh. And I haven’t had any since. So look at me, being all tough and shit.
Oh, and also Molly Ivins died, and apparently she was much admired despite being a plagiarizer. Since she stole not only Florence King’s words, but her whole “loveable curmudgeon” persona, I think she had a lot more to apologize for than she did, but it seems that, much like when Hunter S. Thompson died and I didn’t care, I’m in the minority here as well. (BTW Florence King is one of my all-time favorite authors, so I’ve always had about as much use for Ivins as I have for pens with pink ink.)
The hubs and I were discussing art earlier (which actually has very little to do with Molly the Copycat but bear with me, because I think it’s interesting.) We were discussing art, and what makes art cross the line between interesting and pretentious. There was more to it than that, but that was the gist. And we figured it out:
Pure art exists so the artist can make the viewer or audience or whatever see the world the way the artist does, or look at themselves in a different way, or make them think. Good or bad. It doesn’t intrude, it opens a dialogue.
Pretentious art makes the audience look at the artist. It doesn’t try to do anything but attract attention.
And those are my drug-addled thoughts for the evening.