Wise words from the sage QB, who is like a sassy Ann Landers who cuts through the BS and brings me treats. The last part is based on our theory that my general lack of heft is causing my brain to feed off of itself, similar to the process experienced by the malnourished and purposefully protein-deprived cult victims, and that we can remedy this with constant application of fattening substances (“You want some cherries for your ice cream? Whipped cream? Crushed Pop-tart?”). I’m not sure about the science behind this, but if it gives me an excuse for my insanity and allows me to do things like put two kinds of ice cream in one bowl and frost a red velvet Pop-tart with Nutella, I’m certainly not arguing. Next it’ll be intravenous whiskey, which, although the side effects of tears and sudden and startling life clarity can be rough, has continually brought me through to a better state of health.
Anyway. I set out today to write a blog that for once doesn’t read like an extended suicide note. Let’s see how that goes.
Last weekend I stayed at Chez QB. We went antiquing and watched the entire 33 episode run of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet,” which is as close as you can get to “The Room” for the money. I won’t spoil any of it for you (although how could I? Every 5 minutes is a new insane cliffhanger), but suffice it to say that if your name is Bridget and you don’t grasp the insane ironic cliché’ of cheating with a midget (who is also a stripper and whom you stash under the sink when your cop husband comes home), you’re going to get what’s coming to you.
We may or may not be scripting a cat version (R. Kitty’s “Trapped in the Cabinet”) as we speak. And by we, I mean our two girl crew of “Graham Cracka” and “Platinum Prawn.” Add that to the rap about museum storage I’m secretly drafting every day I’m here (“I’m the original Hollinger gangsta/ bitch, don’t make me get my swatches out!”) and you can how my career is about to really take off.
Same old situation at work. I’ve been parlaying the Southern girl’s innate ability to charm the elderly into scoring free meals from old lady volunteers and life advice from editors in another department (the one I’d like to be in but that doesn’t have interns, natch). It makes things easier now, and who can say how it might pay off in the future (i.e., remembering me for a job, or in their will).
EF found out she will be birthing a boy. Of course everything I have made for it is purple. So help me, I will turn him into a little Prince or Freddie Mercury if it kills me.
It's the Fourth tomorrow. I have that day off, but not Friday, which means there's no sense in going home. I have no plans and no companions. I hope I can find some fireworks. I really hope I can find some Sonic.
Meanwhile, here's this in case your life was missing something:
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