FRIDAY NIGHT LIVE WITH MONTY!
Fun and frolic.
Music and me.
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My mind is often like gumbo, just a big mess of all sorts of stuff, some of it (like boiled okra) quite unappetizing.
Mostly I blog just random, unconnected bites of gumbo: a little shrimp here, a little andouille there, some chunks of this or that.
Served over rice.
The problem with twitter.com (and I've mentioned this before) is that all my random thoughts are going on there, then I feel silly putting them here, because then a few of you have to sit through them twice.
Oh well. Some of them are tasty enough for a second helping.
Or maybe I just have delusions of grandeur.
Sometimes when I say I wish I had some Baked Lays, I might mean that I wish I had some stoned sex.
Or maybe I just want potato chips.
Whenever I click the "Tools" button, I have the irrational thought that I'll see a list of specific names, starting with my ex-husband.
I read that some actors don't watch their own movies, because they don't like seeing themselves be someone else and they can't enjoy the movie because they're too busy critiquing themselves.
Writers, do you read your own books for pleasure? Or at all?
Or do you get too caught up in "I should've phrased it this way" or "Why did I even put that part in?!" ?
Dear All Women In Public Places:
If you have any breasts at all, please wear a bra. Or at least stop wearing tank tops.
My week in review:
I slid down an icy wheelchair ramp on my ass, to the great amusement of passersby. AGAIN.
I got clotheslined by a tree branch when I walked next door in the dark.
The near-beheading by the branch made me trip and fall over a birdbath. AGAIN.
I blew up a lamp. There were flames, sparks, and charred bits floating in the air. Very scary.
I have PMS and everybody sucks but me.
Sometimes all that stands between me and highway-sniping is chocolate.
That is all.
Have a day.