I think I was. Anything I said last night, everyone disregard. I hate offending people, yet I always do it. What is wrong with me? Am I too old to still blame my mother?
I'll just blame Ambien. This really is a terrible drug. I'm going back off it and sticking to Klonopin. (Yes, I'm prescribed, DEA, don't hunt me down.) Speaking of, I really have to wonder if I should just move to Colorado. Surely pot does not make people nutsoid like Ambien, and it probably helps one sleep. But it's illegal and I'm already too paranoid to function.
This is a crazy country and I'm just a product of it. Good morning, Crosstalk.
It's December 16 and my horoscope says my month is going to get hard from here until January. In fact, December 24 is supposed to be so bad I'm not supposed to leave the fricking house! Fa la la.
My daughter says to ignore horoscopes. But I know a guy who's a famous astrologer and I SWEAR to you everything he says eventually happens, even stuff I think is beyond the realm of possible. So I may have to go away and write another novel. I'm already bored with the one I wrote in November. Boo, don't you hate that? I'll never be Stephen King. Or even Mitch Albom, which is depressing beyond words, to not even measure up to Mitch Albom. That's like not measuring up to an amoeba baby.
That was mean, wasn't it? God, I'm awful. I hope a computer calls me and makes me buy health insurance or something.