Is anybody still reading this pulsating mound of putrid rant-flavored gruel? If there are, then I'm sorry for neglecting you my little carpal-tunnel stricken gloworms. I've been moving into a new place. Where, you might ask? I won't divulge, because I secretly fear that there's an albino Opus Dei chronic masturbator who reads my blog and wants to purify me with his spiky metal phallus. Secret alert! I kind of liked "The DaVinci Code" (book not movie, I loathe Tom Hanks).
Something inside of me dies every time I acknowledge that I enjoyed the aforementioned book. Fuck you Dan Brown for making me question Catholicism and my naughty desires for the holy trinity. How cool would the orgiastic raves be in heaven? Those togas they wear certainly allow for easy access. And if one were so inclined, one could find some creative uses for a harp...it's not just for music no mo.
Tonight I went to a dinner party where they served cucumber soup! I wore my white polo and pranced around very affectedly with a croquet stick. Then I shoved it up my own ass so that I would really blend in. No, it was a very lovely meal with some of my favorite art historians. It was a nice break from my PBJ and tofurkey dog diet.
Last night I went to the 5x7. Then I went to a bar. Then I went to another bar. Then I went home. Surely something happened in between there of interest? No. Nothing. Boredom. I was very boring and not at all witty that night. I was "harshing everyone's mellow." I think I'm secretly a cantakerous bald man at heart. With one eye and plastic dentures that glow in the dark. See, I'm ending with more "glow" imagery. What a fantastically balanced writer I am.
Also, I was nominated for Best Female Artist of the Year. What that means exactly, I'm not sure. Of course, if I win, I will be following in the illustrious (and gargantuan) footsteps of my femulleted Czech mistress, Hana Hillerova. Swoon.