11:48 p.m., January 11, 2006
I just finished reading articles for work in hopes of completing the second most arduous task in the yearly media audit. My brain is in technology overload and my craving for real literature/writing kicks in. And as if it had been sent down from Heaven, I spot my copy of David Sedaris' "Me Talk Pretty One Day." The light cast upon the cover from my side table lamp illuminated the book, and with ducts swelling with emotion, I reached down gently and scooped up my prized piece of fiction as if it was the baby Jesus on that oh so holy of day of his birth. Oh David Sedaris, how you save me from my mind numbingly boring profession and whisk me away to exotic places like North Carolina, the world of a 9 year old gay boy, or large department stores at Christmas. Your insights into making curtains, being a 30 something year old employed as one of Santa's elves, or simply the delightful tale of a middle age whore at the holidays makes me want to love you forever. And by love I mean hang out with. And by hang out with I mean I'm not above forcing him to hang out with me. And by forcing him to hang out with me, I mean him telling me I'm prettier than ever other girl. And by telling me I'm prettier than every other girl, I mean freak dancing with me at some bar. And by some bar, I mean the nightclub Heaven in London. And by London, I mean my bedroom.