That last one was pretty testy, wasn’t it?
A brief thought before I turn in on this, the wee hours of Black Friday: watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta for any length of time makes one truly pine for the violent redistribution of wealth in this country.
Sorry, that was a Julee Cruise reference gone slightly awry. My horoscope today said that I was “seething” with various angers. It was unfortunately correct. I am seething and depressed. Just why am I seething and depressed? I don’t know, really, in a succinct way that wouldn’t make me sound like a tempermental child.
Why do I sometimes ask questions like Carrie Bradshaw? Do I expect the answers to come as easily? Perhaps.
In the words of Pepe Le Pew, le sigh. I woke up this morning and the thought of another season in New York seemed a bit too much. I fed the cat, put on some coffee, then made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. I looked old. I can see the age creeping in on the edges, and it was a little tiresome. I looked both puffy and deflated somehow.
I felt panicked for a minute, because really, what can be done? (Goddamn these Carrie Bradshaw questions!) Nothing at all. So I took a shower and moisturized a little more than normal.
PS. I know what a rambling mess this is. I’m posting it anyway.
Just now on David Letterman Emma Thompson described her husband as “making Oliver Cromwell seem like Danny Kaye”.
Oh, Emma, must you rock so hard? (Call me!)
Imagine, if you will, that I reside in your fair state. Also imagine that I own livestock. For the sake of this scenario, let’s say I raise goats. Veal goats, succulent fattened veal goats that bleat wearily from their veal goat pens. Under the rights afforded to my veal goats under your recently passed Proposition 2, would those goats that identify as homosexual be allowed to marry? Or are their special provisions of Proposition 8 that would prevent such a union?
Please advise.
