Monday, August 27, 2012

Isaac's Googly Eye

It was only a couple of days ago that they were saying Tropical Storm Isaac was a disorganized a storm with no well-developed eye. But now it seems to have gotten its shit together, and it's heading straight for us. In these situations I tend to panic. And so...AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! Run for the car! Hide the money and the liquor, get the guns! Oh wait, I'm confusing hurricane evacuations with looting my grandparent's house. All I have to do today is pack for my friend Hailey's, who lives to the east of here in an undisclosed location. It's so undisclosed, in fact, that I've been instructed to drive there blindfolded, which is slightly less dangerous than texting while driving.

My point to all of this, as far as Payphone is concerned, is that I might not be able to write for a few days. The kids have off of school, and I need to go into work this morning and find out what in the hell's angels is going on. Until a month ago, I worked in the Safety and Security department, and it was our job to arrange hurricane prep plans for the hospital. But in the two and a half years I was there, we never had a storm. So now I don't know what exactly my role is. I think it's to go into the office, grab my laptop and run. I am ok with this.

Isaac is such an unsentimental bastard that it plans to make landfall on the 7th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Maybe this is why I've gone physically numb from time to time in the last 24 hours. Hurricane evacuations were fun when I was a kid. My family would drive up to my uncle's house in Shreveport and my sisters and I would play with our cousins and get a few days off of school. Like a spontaneous vacation. Things were always in one piece when we got back. Now, even though things will most likely be fine, there's this nagging fear that they might not be. Or that we won't be able to come home for weeks, and when we do, things will be different. If I may make my first understatement for the day, it's a bitch to think about.

Stay safe, everyone. Load up on the necessities and all of the things they tell you to do, and remember, even though you might regularly avoid that one neighbour who has an insane arsenal, rants about the inevitability of America's collapse to the point where everyone feels a little uncomfortable at parties, and he maintains a fallout shelter in his backyard from the 50's, you might wanna buy him a beer. Maybe he's not so bad afterall.

Saturday, August 25, 2012


I haven't updated Creature Feature House in a while. I think I'll start flip-flopping, update Payphone one day and Creature the next. What would a Payphone Creature look like, I wonder? I just googled images of it, but only found pictures of payphones, stills from Maroon 5's song "Payphone," and a picture of a guy on the phone that says, "Jay Zone's Guide to Payphone Pimpin'." Hmm. These things are not what I picture. I imagine a short, purple monster with an overbite, dropping dimes into the slot to make a call to his lawyer.

"Bill?" he grumbles. "It's Gorg. Any update on the libel suit against that blogger who keeps lumping Muppets and orgies in her posts? The Henson family wants to get back Elmo style...that's right, I know...but my people have been slandered...well, it may seem extreme but they're quite upset...uh huh, uh crayons for two weeks. That's the deal...well, we are monsters. Thanks, Bill. Best to the wife and kids."

Anyway, my trouble with Creature Feature House, well with both blogs really, is that I don't have a feel for their identity yet. Like, if I had to sum up Payphone in a word it would be..."everywhere." I let myself do anything with it, it's my playground. For Creature it would be "family." Ah, there's the trouble. There's a nudge inside of me that says if I'm going to write about me, the kids, and the pets then I should make it family appropriate, like people of all ages can read it, family appropriate. Well, people of all ages CAN read it. There's just no guarantee that an extreme conservative might not kill me. Or pray for me. Oh well. That nudge inside of me has never steered me in the right direction. It's a very fearful nudgling.

Speaking of kids, it's 7:30 and they're already awake. On a Saturday morning. What the hell? So in about a half an hour the craziness of the day will begin, which I'm sure will give me more than enough material for tomorrow's Creature Feature post. It will begin with Intervals, an exercise that my doctor recommended on my last well-visit. It's that routine where you do two minutes of light exercise, then two minutes full-tilt, then two minutes slow, etc, for 20 minutes total. At first I thought, "That's only ten minutes of aerobics, how does that help?" But HOLY SHIT. I am sweaty and out of breath by the end of it, and my whole body aches the next day. For instance, typing is the only move I can make right now that doesn't make me wince.

So your blogess should be looking nice and svelt in the weeks to come. Or as my dear friend and diet buddy, who I will call Hailey, recently said, "we're gonna be so smokin' hot it's going to be illegal to be in the same room together." Lest we give Gorg another shot at calling his lawyer.

"Bill? It's me again. I just came out of Denny's and there are two women in there who are so hot, my Moons Over My Hammy exploded...Yes...uh huh...I see...well, yes, it has been a long time since I've had a date, but I don't see...well, the tall one wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but how would I take her out to dinner if she's so attractive that the waiters melt?"

Hmm, this might be a problem. I don't want to intimidate potential Payphone Creature dates. Maybe I should have ice cream for breakfast. I think it's the only right thing to do.

And this is an aside, but I want to share this with you because this woman is so hilarious it's illegal and Gorg is on his way to call Bill right now. It's The Blogess
ps- Yay, I've learned how to link web addresses to words!

Friday, August 24, 2012

Catapulting Penguins as Promised

Remember the other day when I was wondering whether or not the mention of sex and erotica would increase my blog traffic?  Well, I've gotten two more followers in the last two days. So I can only conclude that this blog has more magnetic sex appeal than Katy Perry wearing magnetic underwear. Thank you for joining us, new vigilantes, and I vow to maintain this page's crazily attractive appeal.  And so, as promised to my commentators, I give to you, Frank Sinatra barbeque themed catapulting Muppet penguin orgy madness....
dsfhskdhlojgpeuu002808jef,asbbkdhwhrwejwteergegbeeb(new york, new york) padoo3453460789581#$ %$^%^*^#@$@#$@(quack)%$#%WFSDFYT^HFQWERFGNKENMbnoert">?Y::::!!!!!!!!!!

My loyalty knows no bounds!

So I have to I just whoring myself? Mentioning sex, phonetically spelling out orgy goings-on, and name-dropping Fifty Shades of Gray, which I've never read, but am piggy-backing on the popularity of for my own gain? Well. Yes. And I'm oddly comfortable with it. A girl's got to get ahead somehow, and it's not going to be by phonetically spelling the mood of my meetings at work which would look like this:
zzzzzzzzzzz(Genevieve, please wake up, I'm talking to you)zzzzzzzzz(snort)?????????

or a long line at Starbucks:

or the Annual Gathering of Letter "Y" Devotees:

No, these things will never work. In fact, I think I just lost three followers. WAIT! What if I take my shirt off? There. Done...What? How did you know I'm wearing a coat under that shirt and am actually now less naked than before? Ok, I'm no good at this whoring thing, but...what do you mean you've heard different? From who?..Oh...Well, the penguins weren't my idea, the catapult just happened to be in the room. Look, my point is if you stick around, I promise you'll always have something to read. Deal? Sweet. And now, as a poetry fanatic, I give you ee cummings. It's not his absolute best, but just so you know I'm not only a smutty blogger, but I have a heart, here 'tis:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
- e. e. cummings ~

I Wanna Wear

I wanna wear suspenders and a tie. A fedora maybe and a vest for no reason. My short hair should be shorter. I'm becoming the Tomboy I used to be, before I had thoughts like, "I need to look like a girl." I didn't just have those thoughts. They screamed at me, terrified, at the age of ten. "Look like a girl NOW," "Grow your hair NOW or you'll never get a boyfriend." "Don't wear that T-shirt with Marylin Monroe on it, they think you're a dyke." "Don't walk like that," "Don't say that, he'll think you're trying to be smart," "Real girls don't run fast," "Real girls don't think about girls." "Real girls don't cry about girls."

I don't care if no man ever finds me attractive again, or a woman for that matter, not if I have to change who I am again.  And I don't care if my mother gives me that confused and disappointed look if I don't wear makeup to weddings or Christmas. Maybe I'll wear eyeliner and a suit. But no more dresses, no more Look Like a Girl Now skirts, blouses, hair, goopy face base, Look Like a Real Girl earrings, exhaustive shoe-to-outfit coordinations, or walking into a room and STILL wondering after all of these years, "I wonder if they know I'm a girl."  And needing them to know.

I'm girl enough.  When I dress like this now, like I really am in my black T-shirts and jeans shorts, sneakers, short-short hair, and no make up, I feel just like this

ps- Like the song, I mean. Not Florence, who's wearing a skirt that's cute on her, but I wouldn't be caught dead in.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Sex Affects Page Views?

I was looking at my post lists and noticed that I had twice as many page views when I mentioned Fifty Shades of Gray. This leads me to the following possibilities:
1) The color gray is popular
2) Sex is popular
3) Fifty Shades of Gray is popular
4) references to erotica generate more page hits than references to The Muppets
All of these things are possible. And right now I'm all about shameless promotion. So for today's post, I will give you an orgy. Here it is:

ansfklanDSFL,ERW !!@^#$%^$GWgdgvazxmKMakw:":POPO*l%^#%@#bbbbasdarqwqwq(swanky music)e+++++===--342395($nnm,!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Everyone take a minute to throw some cold water on your face, I know that was intense. And hey! My page views have sky rocketed! I can now theorize that it could be because:
1) exclamation points are popular
2) blog orgies are all the rage

Either way I'm golden.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Writer Out of Coffee - Shaves Head, Others

I am drinking the last cup of coffee in the house. This is including the ice coffee that I keep in the refrigerator for those days when it's so hot, if I were to sip a freshly brewed cup, my face would melt. My face doesn't look good melty, but I can't go without coffee. It's the last addiction standing now that I have forsaken all others...that sounds almost religious. It is. Because goddamn it, if I don't have coffee there will be hell to pay.

So why don't I just run to the store and get some? Because it would be much easier for you guys to just send espresso shots in the mail. This is beats the rubber chicken suggestion of from the other day by a long shot! Ok, ok, ok...I'm getting excited now. This is what you do, each of you send one coffee bean and I shall combine those beans to make one mighty elixir! A gumbo of caffeine! Only I don't have a grinder, so I'll have to chew them.

I haven't brought myself to get a new grinder since my old one died. It was one I'd grown up with, a Braun, and I woke up every morning from 8-12th grade to its roar in the kitchen. When my parents moved out and I bought the house, Braun stayed. It was part of the deal, like the walls and the plumbing - Braun wasn't going anywhere. And it continued to serve me well until a couple of years ago when it had a stroke and froze up. It was 22 years old by then, which is 87 in grinder years. I tried to fix it, but taking it to the vet probably wasn't a good idea.
"So," I said, petting its dispense cap as it lay on the examination table. "Is there anything you can do for him?"
The vet paused and then said, gravely, "No."
I began to weep. "I knew it, I guess I just didn't want to think it was true."
"Ma'am," he said. "It's a coffee grinder."
More crying. "I know."
"It's not alive."
I stood agape. "Well, not anymore it's not! Come on, Braun, we're going home."
I grabbed his plug and led him out of Captain Obvious's office. Honestly. No bedside manner.

Anyway, I get oddly attached to these things. And honestly, not to dishonour Braun's memory but I haven't avoided getting a new grinder out of loyalty but because I've gotten used to spooning grinds into the filter. Coffee brewing, to me, is all about ritual. Change one aspect of it, and it throws off my whole day.

So what am I going to do about tomorrow morning? I'm going to have to go to the store tonight. I will go to Walmart, pass by the kitchen appliances and think about Braun. Do they even make grinders that run for  22 years anymore? Was Braun made out of a jet engine?

OOH - ok, new idea. Just send me engine parts and I will build my own grinder. It'll have a propeller as a blade, chrome fixtures, white wall tires, and, instead of a plug, an ignition. This is going to be the hotrod of grinders. I shall call her Fuzzy Dice, and she's gonna run until my grandchildren are 87.

And in the spirit of throwing pieces and parts together, I offer you this:

Johnny Cash's "One Piece at a Time." You might have an aversion to country music, but just listen to it and when he mentions something about a car, just substitute it with "coffee grinder."

Monday, August 20, 2012

The Relationship Elephant

On Saturday I went to the Greater New Orleans Roundup, which is a big AA/Al-Anon convention, which means that over a hundred alcoholics and enablers assemble in a hotel for the weekend and somehow don't burn the place down. Anyway, I didn't stay for the whole thing, or most of it, as I'd intended. Just the Al-Anon speaker, and the Relationships in Recovery workshop afterwards.

I'd had my doubts about anything called a relationship workshop. For one, I'm not in a relationship so there's nothing to work on, and two, the whole thing would be an hour and a half reminder that I'm not in a relationship. But, I thought, my last relaitonship while I was in recovery was not exactly healthy, so maybe this will lay ground work for the next one. And maybe I'll meet someone hot.

But when the speaker started off by holding up a stuffed elephant and throwing a black veil over it's head, I was inclined to leave.
"This is a little boy who starts off with all of these hopes and dreams," she said, lifting up an adorable stuffed elephant, whose plush arms were open wide and little button black eyes looked sweetly out to us. Then she took a black, lace scarf out of the bag at her feet and shrouded him with it. "And this is addiction."

I thought, "I am 36 years old, sitting in a room with a trained professional who is waving a shrouded stuffed animal in front of me."

She took a couple of steps back to a chair and laid the elephant on the seat. Then she began to walk around it in circles.

"And now friends and family are all focused on the addict, trying to help him, trying to figure out what to do and everyone is becoming crazy, or leaving. But all he can see is the addiction. It has clouded everything."

Then I wanted to leave because it was uncomfortably familiar. I've been in this situation before, both as the crazy person orbiting the addict and the shrouded person clouded in my own bullshit with love ones circling me and unable to reach me. And that was just the introduction. She talked about how growing up like that can create certain personality traits, like for instance, not having a sense of your own identity, and how that's one thing that's essential for a successful relationship.

"Well, fuck," I thought.

It's only been in the last year, really, that I've felt a secure sense of my own identity. And it's only been in the last few months that I've been uncompromising about it, I mean in the sense that I won't change who I am to please other people.

The workshop turned out to be good. There were a couple of uncomfortable moments, like when she called for volunteers. "Is she going to make us wear veils and stagger around stage?," I thought. She kind of did, but it was cool. She took these two guys, had them face each other, and gave them props that represented different things.

"You grew up with drinking in your family," she told one guy and handed him a paper cup. "And drug addiction," she added giving him a prescription bottle. She turned to the other guy and draped a gray scarf on his shoulder and put large, Elton John-like sunglasses on him, "And you experienced traumatic loss, and you saw violent, ditsurbing things, so you learned not to look at what bothers you." Then she put earphones on the other guy. "And you grew up with a lot of screaming and name calling so you learned not to hear." Then she handed one a plastic sword, and one a shield. "And you learned to attack when you felt cornered, and you learned to block and run when you got scared." Then  she draped a red scarf on each of them. "And let's say here were affairs, which caused distrust and chaos in the family."

After all this, the two guys were standing there, struggling to keep their sashes on the shoulders and juggle the other props at the same time. Then the speaker took a step back and said, "Ok! Have a relationship!"

I did think to myself, "There are no representations of their strengths," but I didn't say anything. Someone else pointed out that in a way they balance each other, which she agreed and said that a couple like this could achieve balance, but without a clear sense of self, they will pretty much be unbalanced, deaf blind to each other and miserable.

"That explains a lot," I said to my friend Lucy after we'd applauded our speaker, who was packing up her dysfunctional elephants and sunglasses.
"I know. You hungry?"
"Good. I need Indian food."

We'd discussed going to the Indian Independence Food and Music Festival that Lucy had seen advertised, which at that moment I thought was ironic because my first lesbian relationship was with an Indian woman. That was definitely a time when I was a little shrouded elephant with no clear sense of self.

So when I thought "music and food festival" I thought of an outdoor event with music, dancing and food. Like Jazz Fest only with sitars and incense. But no. This was in the gym at the University of New Orleans, and Lucy and I didn't get past the front door. There were nicely-dressed Indians sitting at tables, their chatter echoing in the gymnasium, and low, strange music.
"I feel like an interloper," said Lucy.
"I feel like we're intruding," I said.
"That's what I mean," she clarified.
"Oh. Damn it, you know not to use big words when I'm hungry."
"Well, let's go get something to eat, then. There's a good Indian place on Cleary."
So we went to the place on Cleary and it turned out to be one of those places that don't open until dinner time, which for them was 6:30. It was 5:30.
"I can't wait," I said.
"We could go to Taj Mahal," she suggested, another Indian restaurant that wasn't too far.
Still, she called them before I drove of again, and it turned out that they were closed too.
"Damn, what is this?" I said. "They can't all be at that festival. Barely anybody was there."
"I don't know. And I don't like Nirvana," which was another option. The only other one we knew of.
"Lucy," I said.
"India has failed us."
"I know."
"I'm protesting. Let's eat something British."
"We shall have boiled meats!" she said.
But that sounded gross, so we went to Lee's Hamburger joint.

"So what did you think of that relationship thing?" I asked. We'd each been appeased with a hamburger, and were able to talk about these things, sitting in a booth, munching on fries.
"It was good," she said. "Kind of common sense, but it was good to have a visual."
"Yeah. You would think all of those concepts would be common sense, but I didn't have it."
"I think I wore those sunglasses," she said.
"I think I wore the sunglasses, the headphones, the sword, the shield, the cup, the pill bottle, the grief sash, and the affair sash."
"I think you did."
"So how do I know when all of that stuff is off of me?"
"Well," she said, leaning back. "She didn't make those guys take those things off. She just made them balance on those stools."

The speaker had brought out three stepping stools, and told each man to stand on one and then each set a foot on the third stool.
"See? They have to be in balance with themselves if they're going to give to the relationship. There must be a clear sense of 'me,'" she said, pointing to each of the stools where the individual feet were, "before there's a sense of 'we,'" and she pointed to the stool with both feet planted on top.

I don't know when my next relationship will be, but I hope to have the me in good balance. I might keep the Elton John glasses, though, not to remain blind, but for style.

So where to now, St. Peter
If it's true I'm in your hands
I may not be a Christian
But I've done all one man can
I understand I'm on the road
Where all that was is gone
So where to now St. Peter?
Show me
Which road I'm on
Which road I'm on

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Howl's Effect on Rubber Chickens of the Imagination

I watched the movie "Howl" tonight, the one where James Franco plays Allen Ginsberg. It's the kind of movie that I'm glad I saw by myself because then I can just let it soak in without comment or having to break the mood after by asking the person next to me what they want to do next.

Speaking of writers and writing, I did a little homework on promoting The Daily Dylanson Obituaries on and one of the things it suggested is that I update my blog every day. Weeeeell, I did decide that writing needs to be my part-time second job. So that's what I need to do. What if I run out of material? Well, darlings, you're just going to have to give me material. Someone send me a box of rubber chickens in the mail so that I can write about that experience. It would inspire a post like this:

I went out to the mailbox, expecting the usual bills, yoga magazine, and coupons for oil changes that are always wet by the time I get them, for some reason. Honestly, I could get a bundle of bills, health insurance statements, and an add for a better face cleanser, but the coupon for an oil change will be the only one that is soggy and useless by the time I lay hands on it. And it doesn't even have to be raining. How is that? Do they sweat? Are they that excited about my potential savings?  But anyway, yesterday I did not find bills, wet coupons, or a monthly magazine when I went out to the box. What I got was a package of rubber chickens, each with a rose in their beaks and no return address. What did this mean? Was this a message from the vegetarian community to join their ranks again? Does Fozzie Bear have a crush on me? Was this a stunt to get me to blog daily because this is exactly what I asked my readers to do? And why didn't I ask them to send cash? There was no way of knowing, and no way to return the gift without a return address, so I brought the rubber chicken bouquet inside and arranged them in a vase.

Ok, I think I can do this. All I needed was the mere idea of rubber chickens (with roses in their beaks) in the mail and whamo - instant blogification. This means I need to make (sigh) a writing schedule. I've tried this before - making a schedule and showing up, just like a do for my day job. It's worked when I've done it before, you know, until one of the kids got sick, or until I got lazy, and stopped.

I suppose I can look at this as a challenge. Can I blog something every day? And if I do, must I always have to mention my book? I don't know, I only read that promotional stuff for ten minutes. I hate the whole business side of this stuff so much that I actually had to set a timer to keep myself reading it for ten minutes. Now that I'm pretty much done with this post, I'm going back for another ten.

But before I go, I want to share what I'm reading in case there's another independent writer who's working at promoting their stuff.

And Fozzie, stop sending me gifts! How many times do I have to tell you I am not a Muppetsexual, and no amount of rubber chickens is going to change my orientation, I don't care how sexy you look in that hat!

Monday, August 13, 2012

I Hit the "Publish" Button!

Guys, remember how I said that the reason I like blogging is because I get to click on a button that says "publish" without having to go through four or five middlemen to get my writing out there?  Friday night I went to, uploaded the book, and clicked on "publish" AND NOW IT'S PUBLISHED!!! 

If you go to and search for "The Daily Dylanson Obituaries," it'll pop up. Or click here

There is a way to download it if you don't have a Kindle, but I have to play with it to figure out how. Once I do, I'll let you guys know.

All I need to do is design a cover for it that doesn't look cheesy. I am very tempted to quit my day job and just do this full time, but then, I'm always tempted to do that. Speaking of which, I have to go get ready for work. Bleh. But I want to say that I feel relieved and happy. I know that I have to promote this thing myself now, but I don't care. After four years of rewrites and waiting for publishers and agents to tell me it's good enough, I have decided that it's good enough. There have been a few moments over the weekend where I've felt down about being self-published because of the stigma of it in the writing world. But it's changed a lot since I first started out. Then also I remember, "Fifty Shades of Gray, dude, insanely popular self-pulished series."

And um also, remember my last post where I boldly proclaimed that if a publisher approached me and offered me scads of money that I would tell them to walk out the door and then set themselves on fire? Well, I was just feeling snippy. You know how it is, when you're bitter about the publishing industry and all. I wouldn't, um, actually tell them to do that.

But for now my job is to increase awareness of my little book, and keep working on the new one...which I will PUBLISH! Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! Let's celebrate! Everyone dance in their chairs!

SUPER COOL UPDATE: Six people have bought it! I just made six bucks! WOOOOOHOOO! I've never been so excited about six people before in my life!

Saturday, August 4, 2012

An executive decision

After much deliberation I have decided to publish The Daily Dylanson Obituaries myself. I'm looking into Kindle and other sorts of interwebby things.  First, I have to find out how to spell "Kindle." Ok, I just googled it, and I am spelling it correctly. Wasn't sure if the "e" went before or after the "d." There, first step taken. I'm practically published already.

This decision was mostly fueled by the fact that I'm pissed off at the writer of "50 Shades of Gray." She was a fan fiction writer who was offered a book deal. She didn't...even...try.  How long have I been trying to get this fucking book published?  For four years? Yes, four years. I had an agent for three years who didn't sell it because, in her words, "it's hard to sell a book that means something." She did add, "But if anyone can do it, you can." That's nice and all, but honestly, it doesn't mean much now. Because, after four years of rejections and rewrites, it's hard to sell encouragement that means something.

So fuck it! I've had enough of publishers and agents. There's an agent who's reading the whole book right now because she liked the first fifty pages. That's great. She'll finish reading the book in six months and ten years from now after editing it twelve more times, it will be on the shelves? No. By the time this fucking thing comes out, there won't even be shelves anymore.

So stay tuned. This is something that I plan to do in the next couple of weeks. If anyone has any advice on this topic, I'm open to suggestions, words of experience, and anything. Well, within reason.  :)  One of my dear friends advised me to make sure it's well edited because a lot of self-published stuff is poorly edited. This is good advice, and I plan to follow it.

I'm so mad at the publishing industry right now that I feel like if, let's say 15 years from now, a publisher came to me and said, "I see you've written 27 novels and have a fan base. It's good stuff. Would you be interested in publishing it with us? We can offer you actual money." I would say, "Fuck off."
She might laugh, thinking I'm kidding, and say, "Seriously, would you be intersted?"
"I said fuck off. Fuck you, fuck everyone you've ever met, please disinfect the area that you're standing in with Lysol before you go, and when you get home, look at yourself in the mirror and then say to yourself, 'I am a disgrace to literature, and Mark Twain, Shakespeare, and Dorothy Parker would all take turns bitch slapping me if they could.'"

I've written this thing, I just want people to be able to read it. So there.