Heyyyyy. [Walks in, throws coat on your kitchen chair. Opens your cookie jar.] Goddammit, are these raisin?
I’m tryina think of what I have to tell you, and it’s not much, so read on, won’t you?
We had drama in the comments yesterday, which amuuuuused me, because when I wrote yesterday’s brief post about my love of all things dark and intense, and first everyone was all DON’T KILL YOURSELF JOOON and then I had to come back and say, No, see, I just love–oh, never mind.
But then it got dramatic-er from there, and what’s funny about all that is when I wrote yesterday’s thing, I thought, Man, Ima get like six comments today, because this was so brief. Instead I got…hang on. Lemme look…
One hundred-and-nineteen comments!
You know what’s fascinating? Reading someone’s blog about their blog. But the point is, you never know how things will go. I remember occasionally pounding out what I think is a fabulous post: hilarious, pithy, full of the quotable lines.
“Heh. Nice job, Coot.” Like 14 of those, maybe one old school, “You’re so pretty, June.”
And I’ve answered this 149 times in 714 places, but “Nice job, Coot” was a funny family story Faithful Reader Joy told on “Tell your family stories” day. “You’re so pretty, June” is because one day I put a picture of one of the Alexes up, and everyone was all, “She’s so pretty!!!” and I got pissed off and demanded you all say I’m pretty each time you write me. Because I am a pleasure of life.
You know what’s fascinating? Reading someone’s blog about their blog. Also, when someone refers to their work as “yesterday’s thing.”
Let’s look at m’pictures.
One of the Alexes had her last day of work, and I photographed it for posterity. She was one of the Five Minutes of Glory group. One of the people I work with found this absolutely ridiculous unpublished book, and for five minutes every day, we’d gather at 4:30 and read from it for five minutes. You’ve never known a group of people to adore bad writing more than our Five Minutes of Glory group. This particular Alex, above, has a British accent, so we made her be our narrator. ‘Twas classier that way.
She celebrated one last banana o’clock, and off she went, to pastures that couldn’t possibly be green as ours.
Also, I captured on film Blind Gladys Knight and her Pips, over there. Dark As Night and the Pips.
Lily’s eye is getting better, although she still kind of walks around with bitchy resting face. Would you like to annoy me? Call it resting bitch face. THAT MAKES NO SENSE.
I gotta hang around more actual people and not four-legged beasts. Look how SD is scrunching poor Iris. fuk persnal spayce.
I let Edsel go with me to the store to pick up more migraine meds yesterday, and what I like about Eds is that he’s always delighted to see me. A five-minute run to pick up meds and he greets me like (wait for it) Melanie when Ashley returns, all lousy from the war.
Have we already discussed the over/under of Ashley gettin’ a little man love while he was in the trenches? I believe we have, as I seem to recall insinuating that Ashley might not’ve needed a trench situation to rustle up a little man love. I believe I suggested that a Wednesday in the library would be enough for Ashley to decide, “Oh, we’re in a crisis. Let’s kneel.”
“I must admit this latest Proust did not meet my expectations. Perhaps a look at your naked bum would salve my literary wounds.”
One thing you have to admire about me, YOU HAVE TO, is my hatred of folk stays consistent. Although I do have to admit to coming around a little on Price Charles.
Camilla can still suck it.
I’d better go. This is my last free night till Monday, so I plan to live it up with a big night of staying in. Not to be pretentious, not to be Ashley Wilkes and his closet, but have you watched The New Yorker Presents? You can stream it on the Amazon. Not a big woman, but the network.
A real woman could stop you from drinking.
It’d have to be a really big woman.
Name that movie, NOT PAULA.