First of all, Mercury is in retrograde. If you don't know what that means, look it up. Then get some tissues and a bottle of Maker's Mark and don't answer your front door.
Martha Jane is in town from Honolulu and came bearing gifts on Wednesday. Pie, of course. And chocolate cake, both from Sweet Lady Jane on Melrose, here in L.A. She also bought gorgeous Calla Lilies and I realized that as many flowers as I've been given in my life, I've never received Calla Lilies. I also got my very own set of Household Saints. Every lapsed Catholic should have one. I'm not a fan of dark chocolate but have noticed that so far, of the people who have brought me chocolate, they have all brought me the dark kind. It's supposed to be healthy for you and keep heart attacks/killer bees/small children away from you. Just so we're clear, I'm the Queen of the Milk Chocoholics. The sweeter the better, and dark chocolate is bitter. A lot like me, actually. However, that did not keep me from eating it. All. Up.
Here are the pocket saints: St. Jude, the patron Saint of Impossible Causes, St. Clare, the Patron Saint of Television and St. Joseph, the Patron Saint of Houses. I would be very interested in knowing exactly how Clare had to prove that she was worthy of Sainthood since there were no flat screens or plasmas until recent times. Since she has to do with TV, I'm assuming she slept with someone at Paramount although that would make 98% of this town in line for sainthood.
Martha Jane signing the door.Here poor St. Jude valiantly tries to hold this impossible cause, the berry pie crust, together. He came without a halo; the other two statues had halos. I'm guessing it's because Jude was the one who slept with Clare and is on the short list for a transplant.
I think it's easy to see why I think Twitter is gay. Can you imagine reading this in 2 line increments all through the day? WITHOUT medication? See what I almost kind of saved you? I've noticed that the more people Twitter? The less they have to post about. And some were on thin content ice to begin with. Of course I can't use that as an excuse. I'm just Darla Dullard these days. When I go to the doctor I call myself Connie McCripplemaster, which always makes McLoserstene say, "Master? Do you really need to add Master to that name?" Then I have to take 10 seconds out of my extremely busy schedule of complaining and whining and tell her why I have to add Master. I have no idea what they're teaching these kids on the gangland streets today but whatever it is, it isn't WORKING.
Imagine the future. People will have no conversational skills, they will meet and break up over a text, fill each other in with tweets on how their day went. They will sullenly stomp through life looking for keyboards to relay their rage and proclaim their love. Talking dirty will be replaced with emoticons that they flash to each other during sex. No one will be able to bitch out their lawyer during their inevitable divorce because they will have forgotten how to talk. So as tedious as this post may have been, at least there were pictures. And possible Saint fucking and PIE. ;) ------> this might mean Blow Me. I don't have the manual in front of me.
End of chat.
Sweet Lady Jane Bakery St. Jude St. Clare St. Joseph Calla Lilies