1) I am still roiled over that damn Smith development letter. Please, just let me at Megan Douchebag for ten minutes! I will turn her ass around and make sure that she gets good and embarrassed about sending a letter to 40,000 Smithies that basically said that because she's so awesome, send the college money! Women between the ages of 22-102, all of whom have job stress, health stress, child stress, house stress, money stress, who don't give a shit about Megan Douchebag and need a better reason to give to Smith! Megan Douchebag, on second thought, I will buy you a beer, just so I can give you a little Smithie combat conditioning, accompanied by some ruggers and some Adas who can adroitly explain to you why your letter sucked ass!
2) The offices of prominent thoracic surgeons are tough to deal with. They don't return phone calls on time and confuse you with other patients. I am thinking of adding to the surgical mix the two dudes up in Minneapolis who do the surg. For some reason, I can't imagine Meenasohtans being anything but polite and prompt. Regional stereotype or darn tootin' good customer service?
3) I readied my submission for the WLT Mannyscript competition today, wasting over 100 sheets of white paper stock in the process. Thank you City of Austin Recycling. I made a shitload of niggling edits to the first ten pages of my novel, changing single words and adding little bits. The first ten pages are half set-up and half Olivia/Eric interaction. Today I wrote the part at the end of the book where Eric dumps Olivia for a noodly twenty-year-old indie fuck named Katy Shea. Booya, Katy! Some of my friends are getting cameos as minor, easily-disliked characters, because I like them
4) Bob is hard at work readying our home for a bevy of fine IKEA products with catchy Scandinavian names. Indeed, last Saturday, we survived the entire IKEA gauntlet. I fucking hate shopping and of course we got pissy at each other during the last half-hour or so. After three hours of getting to know all of their fucking rad products wtih catchy names, I rewarded myself with a $1 cinnamon roll. The check-out area is sprayed with nummy cinnamon roll odor, so I had to try one. For a dollar. They smell better than they taste, which is on the dry side. Bob, super meatotarian, opted for a hot dog.