Oh my. True story or did you just let your imagination take off on the topic?

True story, sadly. Whenever I worry about my MiL, I think of what she's had to deal with for 35 years.

Oh man.

Mine is stolen from my friend Jen. She has also received a giant neon fleecy top, and the world's cheapest drugstore crack-whores-think-it's-tacky perfume from them.

Poor Jen

Dear J,

Thank you for replacing my honest, inner, eye with the scrutiny of someone from the outside who is shallow, insecure, and surface-obsessed. I only rarely do anything, from the time I’ve been about fourteen without at least momentarily considering how it will look to some idiot watching...thanks for relieving me of some of that pesky self-esteem.

Thank you for underlining all my imperfections, especially the ones that fate kind of dumped on me. I’m sure I’d never know I was the girl in the wheelchair without your dragging it into the forefront of all the conversations we used to have...thanks for continually defining my place for me in the name of setting realistic expectations.

Thank you for your constant inane chatter, because you know reflective people turn into psycho killers.

Thank you for constantly encouraging me to live a lie to get a man to buy me toys because it taught me early on that hero worship should have limits.(Not early enough, though.) Thanks for “allowing” me to overhear that you almost considered not marrying my dad over me because that way I got The Evillest Thing anyone ever said about me over before high school, and no, that never fucking hurt at all. Thank you for causing that unnecessary part of my teenage heart to die, just to prove...what was the lesson, there, exactly...I’ve paid for it. I think I should know.
But you have given me some of the anger and skepticism to get through this tough life I have and the insight into thinking pleasurably of another’s demise that will make me a great artist while you’re still partying like it’s 1989. Thanks again.

And once you have done all this, thanks for “breaking up with me,” and leaving me wondering for many years in what way I failed to please.

Your formerly devoted stepdaughter

Dear E,

Thanks for sending me your stepmother's address and schedule, so that I can arrange for a little giftie of equal value...

Seriously. What a cow.

Yeah...to know her is to hate her pretty much.Although the thing that causes the greatest rancor is that at one time, I thought we were close.But she "gets" to be married to my dad, and money or not, he's not much of a treat as a husband, so in one way she gets hers every day. That doesn't mean that I wouldn't appreciate your "gift" Deb. She is sort of like a victim on Murder She Wrote, by which I mean that the suspect list would be long as my arm.

erika, she sounds like a prime candidate for Death By Christie: aka, Murder on the Orient Express, where a dozen people have perfect reasons to off the victim, and all of them did it.

wrod.

Question. I've asked it elsewhere, and I've got plenty of time to mull over the answers, but input nice and early would be good.

Problem: A man walks into a song title...

One of the funniest - and, incidentally, one of the most pivotal - points in the fifth Kinkaid Chronicle is a pair of Iranian princesses, who attach themselves to the Blacklight Book of Days tour. (Yes, they're based on a real pair of Persian princesses, who attached themselves to the Dead's manager for about a year, and followed him everywhere. Funny as hell.)

Having called book three London Calling - and that's not negotiable, because it's a perfect title for every level of the book - would it be one Clash song title too many to call book five Rock the Casbah?