i spent about ten minutes last night laughing so hard i couldn't breathe. jenny kept asking me if i was alright, it was so disconcerting. why did i have this hysterical fit? i was talking about the russian gulag, & how the women there have hands like hunks of raw meat. then i started thinking about them touching me in the face, & hitting myself in the face with my fists. as soon as i thought of them in babuskas, i was done for. the reason they use muffs to warm their hands is that gloves just slide of their ham-hands. of no help was thinking about those tiny dolls with smaller dolls inside them, i remembered an advertisement in a time photojournal from the seventies that said something to the effect of "in russia a chicken is worth exactly what the government says it is. no more, no less. does it work? apparantly. does it work as well as ours? not on your life." which was for the chicago future's market, & had a picture of all these russian people standing around a chicken.
jenny later said i was blanketsexual, & also "antarctica: national past-time: dying."