I hate drama. Just so you know, I really really hate it. I had more than enough drama in my childhood to put up with it in my adulthood. I have seriously considered moving out of state, just to avoid some members of my family, and if Esteban’s family didn’t totally make up for the occasional mental breakdown in my own clan, I probably would.
However, nature abhors a vacuum, and the drama, she finds me.
For instance, in my class right now, there is drama. My professor, a sweet delicate flower of a Scottish lady who wears velvet tops and drinks scotch on ice, is exceptionally enamoured of clever writing. Well, who isn’t? And there is always, without fail, someone in the class who thinks their opinion matters more than the opinions of others, who thinks that they are the finest writer in all the land, while not having the goods to back it up. And this person usually doesn’t understand a lot of the work discussed, and the critique seems to exist only so that they can hear themselves talk. I have no problem with people with a healthy amount of self-esteem, about themselves or otherwise, but it shouldn’t come by depriving other people of their own piece of sun. So whatever gets you through the night, delusion lady. But apparently, in an email where I swear to God you could hear her voice shaking as you read it, she declared she would no longer be in attendance and then sent a shout out to yours truly, telling me to be strong with the unburdening of my soul. At first, I thought it was some kind of spam trickery, you know how the spam barons make it seem like their e-mail was prompted by their personal concern for your ability to make the ladies scream like banshees in bed and also have wet happy endings? But no. No, it was not. She was apparently concerned about how the class had discounted my feelings about my childhood rape.
The who what now?
I was never raped. I had one throwaway line in a back story about a character being touched inappropriately as a child. Some of the class (including this lady) wanted to hear more on that back story, but the professor didn’t. I agreed with the professor, which is why I wrote the line the way I did, but that apparently doesn’t matter.
And really, it’s thoughtful that she’s worried about my feelings in the matter, but it still irritates me. That’s why we call it Fiction, folks. My last story was narrated by a man, why is no one concerned about my actualizing my penis (besides the spam barons, of course, who are very concerned about its size).
In other class news, I totally have a short story due on Wednesday. And you know how I was talking about writing and catching up with my other one? Not so much. I suck. Thus, the pulling something out of my ass will commence tonight.
Wait, before I forget, on Saturday night, Mopie, Esteban, Abby and I were in my living room, full of asiago mashed potatoes, roasted pork with sauer kraut (Abby and I were the only pork fans) and apple pie, we watched Pirates of the Caribbean. We had a grand discussion about how the pirates were really all homosexuals, but using code so that the seven-year-old wouldn’t ask questions like ‘Which one is the lady?’ or ‘What’s Snowballing?’ and at one point, the two clearly Married-In-Canada pirates were arguing and the big tribally-looking pirate walked by and looked at them in disgust. And that’s when I said, in a singsongy lisp ‘Draaaaaaaaamaaaa!’ and then laughed and laughed. At first I thought it was only funny because we were on our second bottle of Riesling, but now, remembering it, it was funny as hell! What’s funnier than a gay dysfunctional pirate couple? Nothing. A malfunctioning robotic zombie midget? Close but not quite. The only thing that comes close is a pug dog wearing a grandma dress and a flowered hat.
Note from Editor: Dumber Than A Box Of Rocks likes to be politically correct, except not all the time because that would be dull. We apologize to any offended gay pirates, but really think you should get over yourself. The zombie robot midgets are on their own. And also, pug dogs + Weetabix = 4EVA.
As I hinted to above, Abby is staying with us for a week. Or ten days or something. A very long time. I don’t know. It’s weird, this short person in the house. We have conversations about bad tummies and organic yogurt and watch a lot of Nick Jr (Is it wrong that I have a mild crush on the title character in ‘Life With Derek’? Because if I were thirteen’ he would so be my Kirk Cameron. I’m just saying) and I’ve also introduced her to The Karate Kid. Wait until she finds out that Ralph Macchio is now old enough to be a grandfather. Last night, she told Esteban that he assumed too much. Those were the words that she used, too. ‘You assume too much, Uncle Esteban.’ And then she tickle attacked him. So it’s like I went from being childless to having two kids. It’s a good thing that I had a Lite Brite in the house, or martial law would have been established. She’s only knocked over the container of plastic pegs seven times. Maybe I’ll sign her up for beauty pageants. It’s too bad we don’t live in LA or something, because she’d be doing juice commercials by the end of the week. I totally could because her mom wrote a note giving me total parental authority and everything. Oh the power! I should totally get her tattooed. Like a python swallowing a rabbit or something.
Note to my sister: Hi! Just kidding about the python! She totally wants a heart that says “Mommy” but I keep telling her that it’s too childish and it should say “Mom” instead. Kids!
