July 15, 2011
It's me--that teacher down the road who has anemia and a crazy, ginormous fibroid named Harry who wants to be a famous almost-as-cool-as-you-but-will never-achieve-that-level-of-fame writer (me, not the fibroid). Anyway, my fibroid is benign (found out today), but is making my figure appear similar to a woman who's 18 weeks pregnant (that's how they measure those suckers...by gestation). My doctor says, "let's axe Harry" and my mother says, "if you don't take care of that immediately you are going to cause me to have a heart attack," but who do I listen to (darn preposition)? Celia Rivenbark. I'll go with your advice and seal the deal. Plus, if it'll make me look skinnier, then game on (geez, another preposition). I'm gonna request to keep Harry if that's possible. I'll buy him a special jar and maybe decoupage it a bit. I can dress him for the holidays, like maybe buy him a little plastic pumpkin to put atop the lid or wrap some big buck teeth around the jar during Easter. I'm wondering if Harry is like those twins that some of us have inside-the ones that never quite developed. Harry's probably sporting a big buck tooth and a huge, hairy unibrow, which will undoubtedly add to his charm.
AND, I went to see Dr. Crane at Atlantic Dermatology and was diagnosed with a massive case of poison ivy AND folliculitis. I took a couple of friends to see Bridesmaids last Wed. at Mayfaire (sold out) AFTER they had a bottle of wine each and, every time I said "folliculitis," they went into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Basically, it makes me look like a meth addict as I'm broken out all over and treatment involves two months of a strong antibiotic and a steroid. So, I'll probably grow an extra appendage or sprout huge patches of hair on my face, chest, and buttocks. The poison ivy which, coincidentally, started in my ear after my six-year-old put a poison ivy leaf in my ear while playing "hospital" makes for a dramatic backdrop for my infected follicules. I look SO DREAMY!
Wait a sec...HOLD THE PRESSES! Forget the book...I can become a carnie. I'll load up Harry, throw some sequins on his jar along with a cool, tassled scarf, and display my beard and the third arm growing from my side once the steroids kick in (darnitall...who made the rule about the prepositions on the end anyway...I give). I'll get rich that way. Plus, I can go ahead and buy Lindsay's spider monkey and use it as a tax right-off. Oh, the genius of it all.
My sister's sitting beside me reading "Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank" and is cracking up. She asked if you were related to us. That's a compliment (not being related to us as that might not be considered flattery). See, she doesn't READ! I mean, she can and all but she just doesn't unless its diagnostic. She's a nurse at New Hanover RMC and is a nerd. So, if you can keep her attention via words, you're a miracle worker.
So, again, don't forget about me. I've been writing a bunch and getting stuff together. You're my author hero.