I wrote an article for Purple Clover this week, about how I loved the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. They put said article on Facebook, and it has 6,500 Likes, which is exciting, and a ton of comments that go like this:
I loved that show!
That show was my favorite!
They don't make shows like that anymore!
Goddammit. It didn't help that they used a picture FROM THE SHOW to go along with my article. Oh, you have no idea how frustrated I am. And when I was WRITING said article, I said to myself, Be sure to mention how you do NOT MEAN YOU LIKE THE SHOW, but I got so excited about writing about the books that I went on too long and never saw a good place to ramble on about NOT THE SHOW.
NOT! THE! SHOWWWW!
I also kind of suggested that Laura was like the first blogger, because she told us about her everyday, her mundane, and it's probably why I like to blog, and I like it when I turn the word blog into a verb like that. I love it when anyone does that. Let me table this discussion and spoon you some broth.
The point is, someone wrote, "No, Jane Austen was the first blogger."
JANE AUSTEN WROTE FICTION. Why do the Jane Austen people always have to get a bee in their 1700s bonnet? GOD. Must you Jane Austen all over us all the time? Keep her to yourself.
To-day, I shall blog about my fetching coffee filter cap. Also, I do not at all resemble Jake Gyllenhall. Whatever dost thou mean?
Jane Austen people can go fuck themselves. I mean, I like her books. Sure, I do. They're fine. I think I've read them all. GO AHEAD WIT'CHER LOFTY SELF AND LIKE JANE AUSTEN. Leave me alone to read about Laura. I cannot identify with rich-people intrigue. Ohhh, he took an extra lemon tart at tea! It means he loves her, but he's betrothed to EmmaJane Tropwith! Whatever shall he do?
Eat me. That's what he can do. Eat me like I'm a lemon tart, you rich fuck.
I think my period is about to start.
Plus also, my Fitbit keeps not tracking my sleep. What was the point of paying $49,000 for this thing if every day it says, No sleep tracked. I tap it at night, so to speak, and it vibrates, then I tap it again in the mornging (everybody get off Ned) and it vibrates again, then I go to the computer, and No sleep tracked.
Goddammit. It's probably Michael Landon's fault.
I think my period is about to start, did I mention that?
Oh! And another thing! Yesterday I got my teeth cleaned, which by the way is the worst torture ever to face mankind. I always think, Oh, it's juts a cleaning, and then she gets out that brick and starts sharpening her instruments, those picks of despair, and it makes such an awful sound, and I get sweaty, then she puts those PICKS on my TEETH and it HURTS and by the time I leave there, the chair is a Shroud of Turin where I've been sweatily lying.
The point is, somehow we got on the topic of Juvederm, which girlfriend could seriously use. She's 10 years older than me and had the serious marionette lines. Anyway, I told her I'd had it done, and she said, "They did a good job. How old are you?"
I told her, and she paused. "Okay," she said.
Okay.
OKAY!
Clearly she thought I was older than that, and can you just tell me why I look older than 49? My whole LIFE people have thought I was older than I am. Is it the Michigan accent? Is it the bad hair? What?
Here. Here is a picture of me, taken in January. What? What is it? Why so old?
Okay, I have to go. I have to shower, which Fitbit won't log. "No shower in 49 days." No shower logged. You know who was the first shower-er? Jane Austen.
Goddammit.
