It's 4:00, and I have read three internet sites today, over a rushed Flavia (TOM. PIAB FEMALE EDITION REPORTS: FLAVIA STILL +++ NAST, EVEN IF MADE BY ROBOT.*)
I had totally forgotten what it feels like to be gainfully employed. BUSY, even.
Reminder: it feels kind of good.
* The N. used to have an ionizer/air desanitizing machine that took nasty cleat & abandoned tupperware smells out of his '85 Wagoneer, but replaced said smells with another smell: the smell of metal. the smell of what pennies taste like.** The smell, the smell I quickly dubbed: "robot funeral." This has nothing to do with nasty ol' Flavia, but think of the robots. Robots, people.
** I knew a guy who tried that penny-in-the-mouth thing to beat a breathalizer, and accidentally spit a mouth full of pennies into a cops face. Covered in saliva. He went to my HS, natch.
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I won't give up on Flavia. Everyone else might, but not me. It tries its best. And it's such a neat idea that I don't care whether or not it's a very good one.
A coworker and I were talking about its more exotic menu settings and the possibility of hacked firmwares, and she sent me the url makezine.com/flavia. You should have seen the look of boyish glee on my face until I realized it was just a cruel, cruel joke.
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