HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

Me in circa nine hours. A ‘package,’ that is.

Are  you scared? I sure am.

Two other scary things: the oddness of my outfit that I threw on at 7 am that seemed to make sense – but now, in the harsh office light, I realize is trite/frumpy/dumb. I can’t do this ‘business casual’ thing. It totally cock blocks my instincts. Also scary is the fact that I think I’ve consumed approximately 37 snack size snickers bars in the last few days. I was hungry, and I did not want to wait.

Scary.

I wish I was stronger. I really do. And how does one go about accumulating it? I do not refer to strength of fingernails, abs or butt. None of which I have. Actually, my butt is kind of strong, parce que absurd amount of time spent spinning. It now does this strong butt-lump thing. Strong.

I refer to fortitude, I think? I don’t think I have this. I am no sort of pillar. Perhaps because I have undergone – nothing? Perhaps because my problems are small? What if they were big? My grandma is in the hospital. This is not good. This is bad.

LL Cool J wrote a book. . He ‘makes his own Rules,’ apparently. People, this guy has fortitude. I found his verbage in my new desk at work. I shall read it religiously on the train.

And maybe the bible, too.

My roommate – Stella – Korean – says things like ya’ll white people have it so hard. All ya’ll do is be racist all the time, no matter what you say, and you can’t help it.

You know what? I concur. Also concurring is the white man in the elevator this morning. The white woman in sunglasses said to the black man – Oh, I didn’t recognize you with my sunglasses on! White man – yeah, he just blends in! 

Awkward. For seven floors.

Two (completelynon)important self-indulgent things that make me feel silly:

a.) I ordered returned address labels with my picture on them. I did this in tears. They look like this:

b.) nycool interviews me

His name is – Grovotron? He is a 57 year old screenwriter/novelist in Wyoming.

So the rich man person who owns them or manages them wants more than 8 trillion thousand dollars. He would like 9 ten trillion dollars, instead? Like I care, even.

An orthodonist got shot at a playground and 7 college kids burned to death in a beachhouse and Britney got jizz injected into her lips and the hair on the left side of my hair won’t curl.

Listen, the Yankees. There are obviously more important things going on.

A close examination of my interior monologue reveals that I spend a great deal of time composing emails in my head. This is how my mind works.

Dear ——— – So – hi – (insert important thing(s)) – thoughts? Best, Bekah.

I was just thunking about how nice it would be if I could send said emails while I was thinking them – perhaps a blackberried thing – but then I feel like I would be obsessed and do nothing else.

Or what if – in the future – my mindthing read my mindmails and sent them for me, I would just think send. But what if I could not filter or control my own thoughts?  What if I thought accidental things, or things I haven’t quite thought through, awkward things, unprofessional things, mean things – and accidentally mindsent them? In the future, perhaps, our minds will sensor themselves, mechanically: keep us honest and couth.

This just in: I Used to Write on Walls: A Lady Play will be published by Samuel French, and will be distributed internationally and whatnot in other stranguages.

This makes me – um – really – REALLY happy.