Here's a hot tip: Don't pick an argument with me in private (pubic fora are different, argumentz iz wot they're for) when I'm already feeling bad about something else. I don't care what it's over. I don't care how Right you think you are. Just don't go there. Because that is the exact moment you will cease to exist as a being in my world.
Where I live, everything is so small...
You wanna know why I love Ted? Because when I mumble about someone else into the pillow, saying, "he don't love me," Ted will say, in that Howard-to-Marion Happy-Days tone of voice he uses when I am being idiotic, "I don't think it's that he doesn't love you, I think he has Other Problems."
Ted is a wise man, and I'm a lucky bitch.
As for all the people over the years who've felt sorry for him being stuck with me, why don't you call him up and ask him about that? And he doesn't seem to feel sorry for himself, you short-sighted assholes. I ask him about once a week to doublecheck.
I'd say "...to doublecheck because I can't understand how anybody could put up with me either" except that amazingly enough, I've been feeling like I'm actually an All Right Person lately, knock on wood and that feels good. So if you disagree and want to pick at me and drag me down again, I mentally kick you in the groin, with regards from the weaker lil' Me who kicked Herself all those years, didn't deserve it then, and doesn't deserve it now. Tl; dr: please to be fucking yourselves off now.
I can't believe this dimbo Jodie Picoult ripped off the whole Green Mile motif all over again for a "novel" about Death Row. From the reviews I've read, that's not the only howler in it. I'm sure Jodie will cry all the way to the bank though. Can we please have a story about prisoners who don't raise cute little animals from the dead and heal people? Can we have one about just, how people are? Real people, Really? Maybe this guy should write it. He seems to have a clue.
Maybe tc should write it. I kinda wish he would.
I doubt the New York Times would give either of them any air time, while they're falling all over their own ass to yammer abt the shitty Jodie Picoults and "Million Little Pieces" of this earth.
I read in the newspaper that good fiction is really hard to write. ??? I'm going to go ask nickyhopkins abt that in a minute, as I've never thought it's that difficult, but if it really is, then that would explain why most of it is so orful I can't read it.
Speaking of reading, I have been reading the same issue of Vanity Fair since like November, from front to back, and only just now have gotten to the articles I really wanted to read, which begin on page 346. There is absolutely no reason for a magazine to be 346+ pages long. NO REASON WHATSOEVER. I could have used that 346 pages reading something intelligent instead of 152 ads for designer clothes I don't want and designer handbags I have a weird yen to buy and hoard and not carry.
Anyway, while I was complaining about "umpty-frat death row books with prisoners raising dead pets" Ted misheard and thought I was referring to fraternities, so together we concocted a concept about "Frat Row" where a brother raises dead pledges (passed out from high alcohol levels, no doubt) by sprinkling beer on them. Suggested titles included "Perp Sematary" and "Animate House."
Then we went to get coffee before he had to leave, and saw a red Georgetown Circulator bus totally out of its element, driving down Rt. 1 past the Tip Top Motel and the Exec Motel and the tattoo parlor, so far away of Georgetown it was literally within sight of B'more. It turned out to be the Training Bus. Can't believe DC sends its buses clear out to our 'hood to train drivers. Too bad they can't just take me in to work.
I guess I should scrape up those last little dribbles of dried cat crap from the floor, seeing as how the cat died weeks ago. And write up those arguments. Instead I'm sitting here drinking coffee and listening to Uncle Bob on repeat and eating leftover pizza with anchovies, jalapenos, black olives, feta and pineapple. Missing Nate n' Tim's show in West Virginia, bummer. Braaaa la la, how the life goes on.