How long will it take for the Russian hookers to stop spamming my comments? I haven’t said Yes to one Russian hooker, yet they continue to linger. Persistent little buggers. (The hookers have been following me around for two months, and I lack the energy to do anything about it. Also, I think it’s okay for me to call them hookers because they call themselves hookers. Even though *I* am not a hooker, I really do think it’s okay. Right? Right.)
Last week I saw a play at the high school and I told at least five people that it was called Kiss Me Deadly. This morning I found the program on the floor of my car and noticed that it was really called Kill Me Deadly. Uh-huh. It ain’t no big thing.
The difference between anthropomorphism and personification is subtle. When an oven mitt becomes the smartest guy in the room, it’s anthropomorphism. My novel isn’t going as well as I wanted, yet it holds an anthropomorphic oven mitt, so that’s something. I’m also scheming up a way to add some scatterbrained Necco wafers. I am so high right now. (I’m not really high right now.)
This afternoon Meredith and I turned on the radio just in time to hear Wham singing “Last Christmas.”
Me: Oh! What?! Wait!
Me (after doing a tiny bit of research on my phone): George Michael DIED last year on Christmas! And it says he had dilated cardiomyopathy and myocarditis! LAST CHRISTMAS HE GAVE US HIS HEART!!!
We sat in silence until Mariah Carey started singing All I Want for Christmas is You and I started singing horrible things about Love Actually. (I watch it every time it’s on, yet ugh!)
Right at this very moment, as I type these words for you, I’m listening to the Carpenters sing Sleigh Ride. Karen Carpenter. Everyone has a story, don’t they?
I’m still doing the author thing.
I was Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
I was Isa Chandra Moskowitz.
I was Tom Robbins.