A thesaurus is my favorite dinosaur. I confess I have an unnatural attraction to them. When I go to the bookstore, I like to sit on the floor in front of them and play with them. Admittedly I judge them, too thin, too plain, unimaginative, insubstantial, easy, cheap. In a perfect world they would all astonish me at every turn, they’d be fat, come from good stock and I’d never want to leave them. They’d wear leather jackets. Oh. Baby.
Sadly my expectations appear unrealistic and fantastical. So like anyone with aberrant and outlandish expectations of their ideal, I turn to the internet for satisfaction. Yes. I am addicted to the cheap thrills of on-line word-ography. A shameless click followed by onerous load-up, while forced to endure tawdry pop-ups, and there you have it. www.thesaurus.com. It’s like voting, frustrating and unsatisfying and you wish you had better options. Yet until Mr. Write coughs up the magnum opus of my dreams, such is my lot in life.