Run away! Run away!

Okay, first off, I have no problem admitting when I am wrong. It rarely happens, but when it does, I’m the first to accept the fact and to trip merrily along down the road - a babbling innocent - to the next mistake.

Dave Eggers’ book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, sucked. I have got to stop recommending books on the strength of their prefaces. Remember the babies smelling of mouseholes debacle? Yes. I do too, and it still makes me cringe. I stopped reading Dave’s book about one-third of the way through, to stop myself from throwing it against the wall in a fit of bile. Honestly. Why use a million words and as many metaphors to describe every, single, little, thing that happens to you, when three will suffice? It’s enough to make your brain explode. He seems like a nice guy, though. And I take back that stuff about him reminding me of our Kerri. He doesn’t, except in the preface of his book, okay? And let me add, our Fence was absolutely right for reaming the book in my comments section. Except for her enjoyment of Lady in the Water, which she’s entitled to, of course, misguided as it is, she’s generally on the money, and I should remember to listen to her. 

New Update: Jesse lit a paint can on fire and hit it with an axe, engendering a largish fireball that flew up in the air and at the same time, knocked him on his ass. Oh, and it also burned his face, his right arm, some of his chest, the inner part of his left elbow, and four little places on his shin. He’s healing, but he may end up with shiny dime-sized scars all over his forehead, and God knows what his arm will end up doing. Maybe shrivel up, like Chris Elliot’s on Scary Movie 2, which would be kind of funny. We all agree on that.

Torie’s starting counseling for depression this week. She’s having a hard time coping with life, little thing, something I can’t understand at all, as life has always been easy for me.

*Short pause for laughter, and then murmurs of sympathy for Torie.

I assume Van’s doing okay, and getting ready to come home at the end of September. He had me withdraw $3,000 from his account to apply to a band van, because they have a lot of touring to do when he gets home. He’s going to get a place to live with his friend Conrad, and is angling for both our big screen tv, and the 100 foot long, dog-chewed couch currently facing it.

Scott had to talk me down from the ledge the other night, assuring me that while he doesn’t love being away from his family, he loves making the money being away affords, and that it’s only for temporaries.

I can’t do this stuff by myself anymore. I’m overwhelmed, and I need help. Either I get help, or I’m going to pack up my ten favorite books, one change of clothing, a package of automatic pencils, and move to Aruba, by myself, where I will fashion my own hut out of KY jelly, coconut fronds, and driftwood, and live out the rest of my days on the beach. Alone. I can’t even tell you how many inches away from this scenario I am. Oh, and coffee. I’ll need that. Oh, and this chair….

All of the above information is already in the public domain, as everyone in town knows what happened to Jesse, and Torie published her adventures on MySpace, and Van wants publicity for Zombie Gutz, and Scott’s used to me sharing everything intimate about him, and you’re used to me sharing everything intimate about me. You couldn’t get much more open than the Lowe book. I’m sorry about that, but then, you do keep on reading.

Maybe you should have stopped at the preface. I love you all. kiss! xo