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.