Thanks, Deb. I didn't run spellchecker before I posted. I should know better. It also caught an it's/its switch.

I don't do it about them...about the massive identity issues "What's wrong with you?" a million times a life appears to implant. "I'm a brain, a basket case, an athlete, a princess, and a criminal. That's who we think we are." Life is my Adena Watson case for a reason, I think.ETA: And also, don't just hear that stuff from full-on idiots. Some of them are smart progressives, which makes it a mindfuck that could go all night.

What's wrong with you?" a million times a life appears to implant.

Yup. BTDT. I haven't figured out how to deal with it either. I wish I could have a snarky reply waiting for that question, but I don't, and I let it affect me more than I want to but less than I used to.

But you're not a Bayliss(I should get permission to write that as a self-help book "The Tao of Homicide:Life on The Street") Timmy thinks the nice people asked him an interesting question and maybe he should spend a decade or two trying to find an answer and writing it up, double-spaced. Whoa...if I ever really do write a memoir, got the title already.

But you're not a Bayliss(I should get permission to write that as a self-help book "The Tao of Homicide:Life on The Street") Timmy thinks the nice people asked him an interesting question and maybe he should spend a decade or two trying to find an answer and writing it up, double-spaced. Whoa...if I ever really do write a memoir, got the title already.

I don't know enough about H:LOTS to understand this paragraph. Sorry.

It wasn't especially clear, having about forty-seven different thoughts and no transitions. The part that is relevant to you is that probably you let things go more than I do and are less likely to spin out over the cultural implications of things. And that maybe I ought to call my EXTREMELY hypothetical memoir "What's Wrong With You?" assuming I ever do anything that anyone wants to reflect on but me and a few intimates.Or in other words, I think I've devoted my life so far to answering that question because unanswered questions bug me so much. But I've only recently begun to consider that the question itself is a problem.

assuming I ever do anything that anyone wants to reflect on but me and a few intimates

You mean, unlike fucking Nicole Richie, who was just paid a metric shitload of money for her novel? Which, if the first few pages are anything to go by, ought to be called "Swill" or "Birdcage Liner"?

Who has done dick, nada, bupkis, but was paid to produce this, on no better basis than the fact that she's Paris Hilton's chewtoy?

Possibly we both underestimate the interest in Ms. Hilton's sock drawer, Deb. And yeah, she's stupid and too young to have anything to look back at. But she knows famous folks, which I don't.

The part that is relevant to you is that probably you let things go more than I do

I really don't. I am starting to learn how to though. Mainly because I am sick of giving the people who point, stare, and say stupid things control over how I live my life. But, I remember too much, I keep things that people say with me for years, and I let them haunt me.

And that maybe I ought to call my EXTREMELY hypothetical memoir "What's Wrong With You?"

I want to read it, and (I have said this before) I think it needs to be written from your unique perspective. Because I am fucking sick of "inspirational" stories.

The most disgusting thing about the Nicole Ritchie book is that people will buy it. Or at least the publishers think people will. Sadly, I don't believe they're wrong. This country is celebrity-obsessed, with the idea of celebrity itself, not even with whatever questionable achievements thrust said celeb into the spotlight.

Like this is news, I know. But there it is.

erika, that was a fabulous drabble, by the way. I'm going back to read everyone else's...