It's Just Not Normal To Have Eight Bodies In A Wooded Area, That's Just Not Normal.

And the person who said it wasn't even British.

If I were a book, I'd be "Ulysses" by James Joyce. The Internet told me:

Most people are convinced that you don't make any sense, but compared to what else you could say, what you're saying now makes tons of sense. What people do understand about you is your vulgarity, which has convinced people that you are at once brilliant and repugnant. Meanwhile you are content to wander around aimlessly, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. What you see is vast, almost limitless, and brings you additional fame. When no one is looking, you dream of being a Greek folk hero.

I have actually read "Ulysses." No, wait, it was the other one, all the short ones together. "Dubliners." And "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man." Those I read. I read "Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha" at the same time. The smallish conference room full of idiots who went to A&M, that bastion of liberal arts education, to get literature degrees thought that Paddy Clarke putting firecrakers in his little brother's mouth and lighting them was HILARIOUS. Our teacher was horrified by our desensitization to violence. We can't help it. We came up on the Three Stooges, pagan babies and learning to read with little black Sambo stories. It's a wonder we can tie our shoes.

The thing with not buying bottled water anymore is, I'm always freakin' thirsty. Tap water tastes like dirt. Dirt water or disappointing Al Gore. Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool.

Bernie Mac says stuff like "panty thong" and "Big Mama" which reminds me of Grandpa Tex for some reason. (He said "Mama Grace" and I don't even want to know if he said anything at all about thongs.) He would be horrified.

Damn, I forgot to go to the store for cokes and milk. Coffee is going to be compromised in the morning, just like it was today. Godiva coffee drinks that taste like really good chocolate milk aren't going to cut it two days in a row. Damn my tendency to stay at rest when at rest. I've been lounging around in my panty thong (not really) all afternoon, watching Dr. Phil yell at 24-year-olds with four children, no job and who sleep until 4:30 pm with a camera crew in the living room, who can't get along with their "meddling parents." Hey shut up about me living with my dad. I wasn't all up in the living room sleeping on the floor, taking booze out of the liquor cabinet to take to parties at three in the morning. I hate sleeping on the floor. I would never do that. I hate stealing Crown Royal. I would always do that.

Speaking of dad, he is pushing for me to be a teacher again, which sounds like slow suicide to me. I wonder what he'd say if I told him I was going to be a teacher, but in New Orleans. Seriously, when I say "teaching" out loud, I reflexively follow it with, "gaaalhoucgh." Which is Irish for "Shit no! Christ!" That teacher who was horrified by our Paddy Clarke reaction taught us to say "Irish" not "Gaelic" because it was a racist term. I've never once had someone tell me a Gaelic joke. That's totally an invitation, folks.