Why the butler has been the sad, wretched, pathetic scapegoat of the literary world is beyond my comprehension, but I'm just a stupid Yank. If I have any international fans, you might want to know that. At this point I write merely for some extraterrestrial out in space, who thinks I'm funnier than Groucho Marx and our current administration. Put together! Yeah, yeah, I know, you wish you were dead, too.
Speaking of wishing I was dead, last night I went to a writers group meeting. I have, as of late, been attending these types of things. I had one really lovely like poetry workshop which ended (sniff, sigh, alas and alas), and I attended a few meetings at the local library. Which appeared to be attended mostly by competitive 40-something women who looked at me like I was about to sleep with their husbands. Why are women so evil? Don't ask me, but I slap my feminist credentials squarely in the face and bow down to the inescapable conclusion that women are often nasty witches towards other women. Sue me, please, I beg of you.
Actually, don't, I'm dead broke. Yet not dead yet, ha, ha, ha! Anyway, I suffer from acute social anxiety, so sitting in a room with a bunch of people I don't know is tantamount to having my fucking teeth pulled with a pair of rusty pliers. I also dread the "What do you do for a living?" question, as I am only volunteering at the moment. Americans seem like needy children who have been brainwashed into thinking that they are their jobs, and that the only topics of interest are work, vacations, and taxes. Maybe I'll move to Europe! Yes, what a nice thought. Anyway, the only question anyone asks you in this country is what you do for a living, and "starving broke depressed artist" isn't exactly the reply they're looking for. How can you love and loathe a country simultaneously? Anyway, Europe has been a refuge for beleagured artists for lo, these many years, so it would be rather nice. Me abroad, me on the continent, me Jane, you expatriate, tee!
On the continent might not be the expression I'm looking for, so see paragraph one. Anyway, it's Murphy's Law that if you are shy and socially anxious that someone has the bright idea of going around the room so you can answer their tedious questions. I prefer other methods, like skywriting things, but that's OK. I was first, and immediately felt like someone was shining a bright light down my throat. It's also against the law to be an INTROVERT in America! God forbid. So, I'm pissy for a change.
To cheer myself up, maybe I'll get a copy of the National Enquirer or US and read about how Tom Cruise is allegedly holding Katie Holmes hostage. What happened to poor Katie, whom I have some weird affection for, is anyone's guess. She always seemed like a swell little trouper on "Dawson's Creek" (a.k.a. Crack), but now she's married to a man who needs a camera pointed on him 24-7. I fear for Suri's fragile psyche! At least she's not Jolie, who will end up adopting orphans from every country on the planet until she is forced to open up her own orphanage. She'll end up with 17 kids, and Brad Pitt will flee into the night. Maybe he can recscue Holmes on the way back to wherever he came from (MO?)
I will go now, and wish you well.
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