on growing up
Apr 8, 2008
I’ve lost my voice. I had it when I went to bed last night. Ask The Euro. He was getting an earful of something – I can’t remember what.
It’s terrible. Like one of those really bad dreams. Where you want to scream, but can’t; and then decide well, just throw a jar of peanut butter at it. (My nightdemon is a critter of some marsupian variety with overlarge eyes and a pathological fear of Jif.)
It’s also terrible because I can’t call my sister – the only person who can make me laugh by poking fun at my childhood abandonment issues – and say ‘I got that tax thing waaaaay wrong’, and ‘Time to channel Fey and Poehler and write that thing’.
The only question: Do we do it as a memoir or under guise of ‘this may or may not have happened’?
