Ok, this diary is doing weird things to my mind. In my response paper, I wrote Frankenstein showcases the fight of good vs. evil. But who is exactly evil, the intelligent but immoral Dr. Frankenstein or the hideous monster who has been scorned by society for his looks (much like Shelley’s countryman John Merrick would face years after her death). Anecdotes suggest that Shelley conceived this story after her baby was stillborn, perhaps stemming from a dream (or nightmare) in which she reanimated the corpse and suffered the fate of playing with life and death. Much like I am playing with danger (Mother May I sleep with danger?) when I keep eating this frosted sugar cookies because goddamn, goddamn I say! They are so very delicious and perhaps will force me into a diabetic coma at which time an evil scientist will try to salvage my bod for parts. So to sum up, science=bad, playing God=bad, cookies=good. Dear Mr. Scientist: please give my undead monster Beyonce’s ass, thanks.
And the sad thing is that I need six sources, and I honestly thought about quoting my own internet persona, but I have no idea how to cite that.
Funny thing: my Norwegian coworker and I often bond over things that bug us about our office. For instance, there is a gaggle of post-menopausal women who all work together, eat together, take breaks together, go for walks together, etc. When they walk down hallways, they walk side by side, chattering (about what I cannot imagine, since they have been working together in this inseparable manner for twenty years) and walking very very slowly, like distracted cattle, trapping you behind them in our narrow corridors, so you are weaving around like a hyperactive sheltie, hoping they will notice you and allow you to pass them, or possibly break a step so that you may squeeze past. They like to stop suddenly when the topic has distracted them from the task at hand (or foot) of traveling through the hallway, and they will exclaim ‘You’re kidding? Cream of mushroom soup and onion soup mix?’ or something of the like.
Today, my Norwegian coworker brought me another pearl. You see, there are three bathroom areas in the building. One of the sets is in an area that is densely populated with females, so they turned the men’s room into another women’s bathroom. The larger of the two sets is always plagued with problems. They’ve had an ‘Out of Order’ sign on the men’s bathroom since Friday, which leaves them with one. Nils informed me that there is only one stall in this bathroom and the rest is urinals (ah urinals’ one of my favorite things about being a girl is the fact that I never have to think about socially accepted pee sinks). One stall for all the men in a 300 person building. And someone leaves a newspaper in there, so whoever is in there for some quiet time, sits there reading while a line grows outside the bathroom.
I don’t know why that makes me laugh, but it does. Probably because there’s such a sense of entitlement there. ‘Look buddy, I know you’ve got to go, but I’m here now and I’m setting up camp’ while a throng of men line the cubicles, trying to avoid eye contact and the poop shivers.
