Classy.

Wednesday night I had planned on updating, but my Queer as Folk forum was attacked with a two-hour case of trolls which took a manibajillion years to clean out on a dial-up. By midnight, I was way too pissed off to update.

That was the night of Funky Chicken, a chicken I took out of the fridge to cook, and found that it had somehow completely rotted on the trip from Trader Joe’s to home. The entire house smelled of foul fowl. It was not a good night, on the whole.

Thursday I was rehearsing at night, writing during the day. I’m trying to finish this screenplay and I’m at the part in the writing process where I hate it so much that I now have to just force myself to finish it. I hate every line, every character and every scene. I wonder why I even bother. I can’t stand the thought of people reading it. By tomorrow, I plan to have the first draft done. Then by Monday, the revision. That’s the plan, anyway. I have to torture myself or it won’t be finished. Hey, hey, Friday night, how cool are you? By Monday I’ll be protective of the script, but right now — hatred.

Today I went to the Warhol exhibit at MOCA on like, the very last possible second I could have. I thought it closed in September, but no. I prefer museums when they’re mostly empty, echoed and hushed. This was more like a visit to Alcatraz on a weekend, but there was something about the large crowds gathered around pictures of Brillo boxes that made me think Warhol would have preferred it that way.

So, since I’m now forcing my head into the screenplay I hate until it turns into the screenplay I don’t want to set on fire, I can recommend some weekend reading. In my defense, I thought Sars was making a separate page for bios, and not putting a small strip underneath the advice, so when you scroll down to Vine Five and see my big-headed opus, know that I now feel like an asshole.

Ooh! Little Drummer Boy update: yesterday he and his Guitar Student friend made it all the way through “Brown Sugar” without stopping. When the clanging and banging finally came to an awkward silence, I’m sure they heard the sound of one girl clapping. I whooped it up, y’all.

To avoid writing yesterday I cleaned out the office closet. I’m so glad I did because I found a harmonica. It sits beside me right now. The next time Little Drummer Boy goes in for a jam, I’m gonna jam with him. I can’t wait. Right now he and his loud friend are just outside my window fighting over a shopping cart. There are many questions that will never be answered about that last sentence.

Anyway, I can’t wait to unleash my Alanis tribute on the harmonica. Never had one lesson, just like her.

Two things I learned over the past twenty-four hours:

1. Never inhale on a harmonica you just pulled out of a dusty closet.

2. Never run on an empty stomach after taking a Cipro pill unless you enjoy puking in public. It does make you look like a bit of an athletic bad ass, but you also look like Scary Exercise-Bulimia girl.

One thought on “Classy.

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