Please bookmark the correct page at http://suzannadanna.net/ Princess of Irony

I Blame My Sister

Issue Date: Wednesday, Aug. 17, 2005

I’d like to take a moment to discuss the finer attributes of ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

[SnnerfK] Wha - huh? ::blink::

I mean… [yaAAAwn]… that the esoteric use of the ZZZZZzzzzzzzz

What time is it anyway? Only one fucking-twenty two in the p.m. huh? Are you sure it isn’t nap time yet? No? Shit.

I blame my sister. And I can do that because she isn’t reading this journal anymore.

Maybe it was all of the f-bombs. No? Maybe it was the fear of the Internets. Maybe it was the rampant James van der Beek humping in the days of yore. Oh, quiet down you… yeah, you with the clown shoes, it was a dream for goodness sake.

Anyway, she isn’t reading my journal so I can blame her all I want.

I can also blame her awful taste in books. She has this predilection for odd literature. Sure, she loves the standard fare but give her a novel or a memoir with the author or the main character coming completely unglued and my darling sibling is a happy, happy reader.

The same books that seem to make my sister hop about with maniacal glee leave me feeling sorrowful and very pensive. I tend to latch onto characters, seeing them as friends and or family and their undoing or demise makes me very unhappy. I want to help them or at least offer comfort (The Cider House Rules was almost the death of me… Damn You John Irving!).

Yeah, yeah… yeah… I’m aware of the level of crazy. Move along Maude.

My sister called me two (three?) weeks ago and was all but jumping through the phone. We were to go to a girlfriend’s baby shower that Sunday together. She asked me to be at her house at 1:30. She said that she had some pictures for me. I was very excited, as I looooove pictures. (Ya’ll, send me pictures. Love them.) Then she delivered the punch line, “And I have a new book for you! You are soooo going to LOVE IT!”

My response? “Oh Lord.”

Every time we talked before that Sunday (as we are likethis we talk just about every day… sometimes several times a day) she would mention said book. The book started taking on anthropomorphic characteristics in my head… laughing menacingly in the background with that deep Hexxus like laugh, rubbing its little booky hands together evilly or um, making me not sleep when it finally got into my house. So, I really did not want to pick up the book when she gave it to me that Sunday.

But ::sigh:: I did.

I did not open it or even look at the cover for a good two weeks though.

Do ya’ll know what book she gave me?

Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs.

Now I… by design, am not a book cover (front or back) reader. That whole, “A book should not be judged by its cover” thing has been burned into my psyche so completely that I barely even read the titles anymore. (Hi! I’m Captain Literal!) I look at the author, look at the title, make sure that I haven’t read said book before (it is a danger with stuff being re-released nowadays) and then purchase, borrow or check out.

So the book sat on the kitchen table laughing like Tim Curry in Fern Gully every time I went into the room. I had other stuff to read. Three new (well old… but new to me) books from Half Price Books just waiting to be delved into. But Nooooo… There was that damn book. Someone else’s book. So there was added pressure of reading and returning. And it was a My Sister’s Crazy book to boot!

Gah.

I opened it.

I started reading.

(SPOILER ALERT!)

I got to the chapter called “The Masterbatorium” and called my sister to tell her that I hated her.

When young Augusten walks into his house and finds his neighbor, the preacher’s wife, with her face buried in his mothers crotch… and … um… yeah… I called my sister and, “Haaaaaaaaate you.”

And then the gay p0rn started.

Now mind you that my sister DID read the back cover (link above goes to Amazon where you can view said back cover… in all its glory) and found nothing wrong with picking up a book about a child (he was 13), “who befriended a ped0phile who lived in the backyard shed”. I don’t really hate my sister. I love her, I just hate her for knowing my weakness for finishing books.

My sister called me yesterday while I was at work. She was in the car with her mother in law. She said, “Hey, go to www.” And I shouted back, “No! P0RN GIRL! I am not going anywhere on the web that you send me! Does your husband know that you are trafficking in p0rn!?” She almost wrecked she was laughing so hard, and then she sent me to a website with some beautiful pictures of my niece that were just taken. And then she had to explain to her mother in law what all the laughter was about… Heh.

The book is well written. It is just a train wreck.

You know that thing about someone is always worse off that you are? Dude, Augusten? How did you survive man?

This book, I could not put it down until I finished it because it hurt my heart to read it… and it is a memoir. NOT FICTION. Jesus. Oh, holy shit… it is going to be a MOVIE?

[deep breath]

Anyway, I stayed up last night to finish the book.

Tired, and I blame my sister…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Update (later the same damn day)... Gah.

What the hell is up with my comments? Why are they temporarily disabled? I did not do this. Do I have gremlins? Is HaloScan sort of like the NotifyList of the comments world? Sometimes worky and sometimes not? Ya’ll? Sorry. Please come back and post your comments… you know I love them like Buffalo Bill loves the soft skin of the fat girl and Eric Cartmen loves the tears of his victims.

Sorry, I went to a dark place there for a moment.

Ya’ll know I love you.

It leaves a comment or it gets the hose.

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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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