Lately, people have made a point to let me know their wishes in the event of their untimely death (or persistent vegetative state). But if any of you are hoping to be shot out of a peyote button clenched in the palm of a 53-foot high Gonzo fist, you should probably let me know now so I can start saving up. If it means I work shoulder-to-shoulder with Johnny Depp in order to carry out your memorial service to your specifications, I’m willing to make that sacrifice.
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I had a meeting yesterday where someone complimented my writing. He said, “And then I read this joke and I knew I wanted to work with you.”
He said a few words, stumbling to remember the line… and I had no idea what he was talking about. I was instantly convinced he had brought in the wrong writer, that it was all a huge mistake.
So I nodded, all, “Yeah, I’m hilarious. Thanks.” I’m frantically trying to figure out what he’s talking about because my submission was about trucks and nicknames and he’s talking about a fetus and then — I realize he’s talking about Letters Never Sent.
“Oh, you read that?”
“You’re a sick, twisted bitch.”
In comedy, this is considered high praise.
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The damn squirrels have moved on to eat the leaves off the zucchini plants. I much prefer the flowers and plants and trees where the biggest problem is battling aphids and cat poop. I don’t want to build an ugly chicken wire fence around this tiny garden. It’s making me want to give up. I don’t want to use pesticides or poisons or the pee of other animals. I just want to grow five strawberries. Is this too much to ask? Damn squirrels! I’m going to have to grow this stuff inside the house. Or at the store, where it’s free from rodent bite marks.
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I cleaned off my desk today because I’m supposed to be writing. I’m also doing laundry. I will soon clean the bathroom. The house will be clean and hopefully I’ll finish this chapter… if I don’t stay too long at the gym. Approaching deadlines mean spotless countertops and toned thighs.
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New stuff in the Help section.
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Everybody’s watching ANTM tonight (and not just because Potes is hilarious).
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I thought Sara was kidding. I still feel like she made up this whole thing.
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And… hilarity.