Tuesday, August 31, 2010


I have a pounding headache and my entire family and I are crammed into this goddamn hotel room. Every single one of them is snoring like a velociraptor, which means I get to stay up all night or sleep on the fucking balcony. I am inches away from smothering myself with my pillow or hurling this laptop through the blurry TV. As good a time as any for a blog.

I am so tired I could drop. There is no ear plug strong enough to block out my dad's snoring. Inkpop Idiots are as exasperating as ever and I am getting nowhere with anything. I don't like any of my Facebook friends that are online so it's not like I can talk to any of them. Stupid conservative aunt stopping me from seeing La Cage and wants to talk to my mother about keeping me away from Emerson cause she's afraid I'll turn into a lesbian. Maybe if I sit here and stare enough daggers at my father he will wake up and be quiet for the first time in three hours. I am angry. So angry. This laptop has no sound. No more Pretty Little Liars episodes until January. No more Syliva Plath books until ever.

God help me, I am never getting married. I like myself far too much for that. Plus I've been told I'm too crazy to ever get married. Son of a bitch, that's true.

You know who I hate? The women on the Real Housewives of New Jersey. All they ever do is try to rip each other's hair out. Whatever happened to class - yeah, you won't find it with me. Someday I will learn to dance like Gwen Verdon, act like Judi Dench and sing like Christine Ebersole. It's only a thought. Maybe then I would be able to get my own son of a bitching hotel room.

I get to meet Bill Clinton on Friday through work. I do not plan on telling him I am an intern.

Someone on inkpop wants to commit literary suicide, and I just realized I have absolutely no reason to tell them they shouldn't. Because really, I think they just should. There is nothing good on that site - just stress and never ending frustration. I don't remember the last time I had fun there. We're all competing for a pat on the head from some Harper Collins editor who isn't going to tell us anything we don't already know.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

God Damn Everything

So my book fell again and I received the most astonishing message:

"dnt giv up ur book isnt gud but u giv gud comments there funny"

Forgive me. Actually, don't. Fuck you. As Barb Fordham said, "You'd have a lot more credibility if you had any credibility." I'm pretty sure something just broke and I cannot. go. any. more. What kind of animals am I dealing with? Christ, when this is over I'm going to be canonized or institutionalized.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010


So Katie Finneran just announced her pregnancy. She got married on Sunday. I am deeply suspicious, but congratulations to the happy couple.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Oh, Inkpop

You know what I love? When people feel obligated to give me a negative review just because I gave them one first, and then send me a message crying about how I don't know anything and how disappointing my book is.

You know what else I love? When people have enough of a spine to actually give negative reviews. I respect that.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Booky Bitch

So I've found one little thing that makes me like LuPone. On the Gypsy CD during Smile Girls - the first time she says, "Smile Marjorie Maaaaayyyy." It's pretty nifty.

So if I'm going to be a writer (and my SAT results tell me I am) I need to start talking about books, right? Of course right. And not books like OMG THE BOOK OF IN THE HEIGHTS SUX. So here's a list of what I read this summer.

The Bell Jar - Plath

Jazz - Toni Morrison

American Eve - Paula Uruburu

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings - Maya Angelou

Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams - Plath

The Collected Poems - Plath

Night - Elie Wiesel

So yeah. I love Plath, obviously. Daddy is my new favorite poem. American Eve was about Evelyn Nesbit, The Bell Jar was The Bell Jar and Jazz was good but Beloved It Ain't. But Night. Oh, Lord, shall I talk about Night. I bought it at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. As I was handing it to the cashier the guy behind me said, "You ever read Night before? You won't be the same after you do." Trust me. I needed the warning; it's about the Holocaust. I started reading it when I was sitting on a bench on Orchard Street, and I came to a part about throwing infants into the air for target practice. I thought to myself, "What the hell did I just get myself into?" and I stuffed the book in my bag and did not open it again until seven hours later, when I was sitting waiting for Night Music to begin. And I read it. And at intermission I read some more. And more at the stage door. And some more on the ride home, when I finished it. It is a short book and finishing it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It is terrifying. It didn't bring me to tears, but it did make me shake like a scared child.

I don't like this book. No human being on the planet should "like" this book. I don't know what it says about you if you do. But I am deeply, deeply grateful that it was written and that I had a chance to read it. If you've never done it, do it now.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010


I was just bribed into visiting SUNY Binghamton because they're putting on Streetcar in October. I have no interest in actually going to school there. On the other hand, I've never seen a live production of my favorite play and my parents know me too well. Oh, dear. I'm a spoiled bitch, aren't I. Well, no more than Michelle Obama, who took 40 people to Spain and rented 60 hotel rooms on the government's money.

That's right, folks! She need 60 HOTEL ROOMS FOR 40 PEOPLE. Isn't it rich? Isn't it queer? Isn't it ridiculously untrue? Not only that, but right wing liars are bad at math. Claude could have come up with better numbers. And he doesn't even have thumbs.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Every Day A Little Death

Some bastard in my phone bank just called me a horrible name because I interrupted his dinner. Men are stupid, men are vain.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Bring Down the Curtain

I just received an inkpop message saying "hi im jew to dis site read my book" I think it's time to leave at last, when I can still pack up whatever's left of my dignity.

Bring Up the Curtain

I was bitterly disappointed by what I saw last night at the Kerr. Bernadette Peters, I felt, is almost unendurable as Desiree. She raises her arms in the air on every single line and practically screams it. She is never serious until Send in the Clowns, which did not impress me much. It seemed the only way she showed emotion during the song was by either splaying her fingers over her face or looking up at the ceiling. My mother fell asleep and I was counting the minutes until the Miller's Son.

While Bernadette is chewing scenery and everyone else seems bored beyond belief, Elaine Stritch is giving a dynamite performance and Leigh Ann Larkin is still a very alluring Petra. That's about all I can say, though. Ramona Mallory's Anne has turned into a twisted, ANNOYING, giggling idiot of a little girl who can't manage to say anything audible or coherent. There were hardly any smiles at the curtain call. In fact, I saw a few yawns and Ramona Mallory looked incredibly pissed off. I wasn't expecting her to stagedoor, and I wasn't going to bother her if she did. But she did. And it was awkward. It went like this.

Her: Hi, my name is Ramona.
Me: Ok. Hi.
I thought she was trying to be like Dainty June, so I just kind of smiled, but then I realized that she was staring at the guest sticker I got from NYU. It wasn't a "Hi my name is" sticker.
Her: No, cause you have the...oh. I thought it was a nametag.

A very rumpled, tired, and overheated Leigh Ann Larkin complimented my headband, but not before Aaron Lazaar told the girl next to me that no, he would not sleep with her. I think I am going to lay stagedooring to a rest pretty soon. It's not fun anymore.

So, lesson for the day: shoulda seen La Cage.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

The Glamorous Life

So, before we start - Fela FAIL. Sorry bout that, folks.

Now. This afternoon I was sitting in the living room, working on a poem and cursing like Barbara Fordham. (Ever tried to write a poem that doesn't suck? Try. It's more strenuous than running a marathon.) Anyway, Mom drifted in, saw me sitting in a sea of crumpled papers and empty Powerade bottles, and said, "You look stressed. We should see a show tomorrow night." And that we will do. We've got such lovely Night Music tickets. I am no BP fan, but huzzah for Elaine Stritch. I very nearly picked La Cage, but perhaps that will come later. Still, send in the sonofabitching clowns. I'm gonna get to see Elaine Stritch in one of her bitchy moods.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010


So Claude likes to roam around, and for the most part I let him. That ends today. About an hour ago I heard giggling, so I looked out and saw that two little demon twelve year old girls next door had him cornered. They were calling him Kitty, poking him with a stick and trying to pull his tail. Right away I said to myself, "Okay, that's not gonna fly." I mean, those motherfuckers were breaking shit with my cat! And, goddammit, he may not like wearing collars but he is MY. CAT.

So I did what you would have done. I went Patti LuPone on their asses. I went out into the backyard and up to the fence. The altercation went like this:

Me: What are you doing?
Girls: Playing with the kitty.
Me: That's my cat and he doesn't like having his tail pulled.
Girls: Yes, he does.
Me: Can I come to your house and poke you with a stick?
(Claude takes the opportunity to run out of there like a bat out of hell.)
Girls: Aww, he ran away.
Me: Yeah, cause you were bothering him. Don't do it again.
Girls: What's his name?
Me: You wanna know his name?
Girls: Yeah.
Me: Too bad.

And that was the end of it. I considered letting Claude teach them the lesson himself by scratching them, but I opted out of having two little bitches screaming that I let my cat hurt them.

Double Sigh

Well, it's coming. Spiderman opens on Dec 21. I am very happy and worried for Jennifer Damiano. This cannot end well.

Sunday, August 8, 2010


A blurry picture of my buddy Claude. He is the only one I am ever happy to see anymore. I am thinking I'm gonna end up like Little Edie.

Saturday, August 7, 2010


Before I start, my cat Claude is sitting by the window going MOWMOWMOWMOWMOWMOW. I think it means something like, "Include me in the sonofabitching post, and there better be tuna for dinner." Arrogant little bastard. He's just like his momma - all fat and grey and bitchy and lazy. He also likes George Hearn more than any male cat should. He loves I Am What I Am. Claudio's getting a feather boa and wig next time he's in a good mood.

Anyway. My mom suggested that I make my pen name Peggy Ross. Jesus Christ. That sounds like an old lonely Irish lady writing romance novels in the attic. Which, God help me, is what I may turn out to be. So here are some names I've been considering, though I don't see what's wrong with my own.

Vivien Ripley
Betsy Knight
Olivia Mallory
Virginia O'Neill

Fact is I think I hate every single one of these names.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


Prop 8 has been overturned. THIS IS A BIG SONOFABITCHING DEAL. My background today is in honor of this momentous day, the work that's been done, and the work that's yet to be done. I am what I am. You are what you are, and there's nobody that's gonna change any of that. What a comforting and wonderful thing that is.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Nobody Likes You

So I spent the week in Maryland, and I sincerely wish I had not. Some redneck slammed into me on the gokarts so hard that I got a concussion and passed out. I opened my eyes to see him standing over me in a camo hat and tank top, scratching his bald head. He said to me, and I quote, "Sorry, kitty. Giss Ah hitcha purty hard thur, din't Ah?" Don't kitty me, you son of a bitch. And yes, you did hit me very hard. I would have thought you could have gathered that when my car spun out and I was slumped over the wheel with my eyes closed.

I am stupid. I know that. It's just a comfort to know that there are people much dumber than I am. For instance, today my brother was whining because he's tired of reading about the "Joe-ads and how the dustbowl destroyed their house or some shit." My itty bitty English major's heart split along its faultline.

Apparently, a family friend is producing Women on the Verge. Lenora's over the moon about that because of Sherie Rene Scott, and I'm very happy for D'Adre Aziza and BRIAN FREAKING STOKES MITCHELL, but now I have to pretend to like and possibly be nice to Patti LuPone. I was told, "Hey, maybe we'll all do lunch after a Saturday mat or something." I severely, sincerely do not want to go to lunch with Patti LuPone, and somehow I don't think she's too keen on dining with me either. Several reasons:

1. She rests between shows.
2. I would have no earthly idea what to say.
3. All I'd be able to think about is STOP TAKING PICTURES
4. I'd sit through the meal overcome with the fear that she may at any moment smash a salad plate over my head.

So I'll see the show, but, diva or no, I think that is one invitation I will be declining.

Monday, August 2, 2010

See You in Hell

Some kid at driver's ed decided to tell me I'm fat. Well, actually, he saw me reading and said, "Don't you hate fat bitches who read all the time?" I was hurt, but I said, "Not really. But still, thank God there are no fat girls around here or that would have really hurt." He just kind of blinked at me and we both backed down. You don't wanna break shit with me, motherfucker.

Deliberate cruelty is not forgivable. I'd never even met that son of a bitch before. I just don't get what he could have gained by deciding to call me fat. It's actually a great comfort to have that confirmed for me. For a while there I thought all my friends were turning anorexic. Oh, well. Sticks and stones, Kate Monster. That bastard can just kiss my fat literary ass.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Not a Day Goes By

My heart is once again broken. I was inches away from the top five and some motherfucker blew by me. This leads me to believe that I'm not a good writer and should maybe be a prostitute. Problem is my own brother tells me I'm a grenade so I guess I won't be good at that either. This is a list of things that happened today:

1. I failed at inkpop. Again.
2. My cousin that I love more than anything said she didn't love me and then showered everyone else with kisses.
3. I freaked out while driving because SOMEBODY had to sit in the back, eat his chicken, and critique me every time I hit the gas or flipped the blinker.
4. My own brother told me I'm too fat and ugly and crazy to get married. Not a day goes by when I don't remind myself of that anyway.
5. I realized I am never going to get to see Stritch.
6. My aunt got me Green Day tickets and then decided to give them away.

Throw all of these things together and it makes me think I'm not worth very much. This is not a cry for help and it's not a chance for you to tell me I need a psychiatrist. Had that covered a long time ago. And to top it all off, I'm stuck in Maryland. I'm just not in the mood for Republicans right now.