Oy.

I know it's Friday night, but I chose to stay in and edit my book. I like to listen to music while I work, except I can't do that because there are three teenage boys sitting in my living room yelling, "PENIS!" and seeing how much they can stuff into a ten-year-old's E-Z Bake oven before it explodes. As Violet Weston would say, "Scintillating." It's times like these when I'm most grateful for my all-female high school education. Nobody interrupts the teacher or step-dances in the back of the classroom. The bathrooms are clean. If you cry, you will be hugged. There are no goats running around in the halls. My brother goes to an all-boys high school. I hear things. I know.

Sitting up here in my room and listening to these three animules perform their primal adolescent rituals is truly a joy. Their laughter is somewhere in the range of Maria Callas going for the end of Un Bel Di. According to my calculation, their conversation averages two unfunny sexual jokes per five minute period. When I went down there to ask them to lower the radio, I was told to go upstairs and not come back down under penalty of being shot with a BB gun. But that's okay. Because Victor Fleming once told Vivien Leigh to "take the script and shove it up her royal British ass." Ooh, there was just a very expensive-sounding crash. I assume it was the TV or the mirror in the hallway, but, like Coalhouse Walker, I will not move from where I'm standing. Let these assholes figure it out on their own.

Now they're taking videos of themselves. Keep it up, gentlemen. The world can't wait to see what cinematic gems you're ready to turn out. DeMille and Kazan are absolutely trembling in their boots.