You know, maybe writing a memoir isn't such a bad idea after all. Only if it contains a colon followed by a qualifier (A Memoir being the the most poignant, and My Story being a close second) and is called something like: "Gathering Moss: A Memoir" or "Flailing Sycamores: A True Story of Grave Loss." "Magic Johnson: My Life" isn't so bad either. I mean, being 24 and not a professional athlete with a t-cell-obliterating virus, I feel like I don't have as much license to do such a thing as, say, a 50-year-old HImalayan sexual predator or an aging ex-model with a busted septum, inferior bone density, and a broken heart. I have some skeletons in the closet, I suppose (HA! No pun intended), so it's possible I could totally probably make it work, or at least embellish it to my liking. Literary lies=okay by me! A bad, fake memoir is still better than lots of things, like: The Tyra Banks Show, 311, and Urban Outfitters.
I really am kidding, though. I think for now I'll stick with hedgehog rape and Mall Sex. Until I become a drug trafficker for LA-based gangs and/or go to rehab (again).
Flossie killed the mouse we thought was a rat yesterday. RCD gave her a delicious fish-tasting treat for her kill, and she savored every delectable morsel of blood, sea, and victory.
So that's another thing to be thankful for. Actually, two things: (1) my cat, although developmentally disabled, can still kill things like a normal cat, and (2) as far as I know, the rat problem is of no import anymore. Hooray!
In other news, after fifteen years of hating bacon, I like it again. Quite a lot, actually.