Oh, GOD, did I have so many things to write about this. I mean, the book is really writing itself. Drag pageants, drag shows, drag mothers as house guests, sons in motor cycle accidents phoning in specifically bizarre instructions from Turkey, best friends spooning in hospital room beds, meetings about the last year on earth...I'm subtly overwhelmed by the wealth of emotion and visual stimulation in my life. Almost everything I see could be a pivotal scene in a movie and I'm so detached from myself and from this hilarious narrative that has brought me to this point in my life that it no longer seems real and it hasn't for so long, it's just like I'm watching some big retarded movie. It gets better? It gets weirder. And fucking weirder and weirder and weirder. Well, I love it. This phantasmagoric avalanche has far surpassed my wildest dreams of what my life could be so, here I am, and, ya'll, you could be here, too. Start with a bra and a tube of lip stick, it all falls into place from there.
I'm obsessed with my ex-boyfriend and he's also a fucking dick, but I went to his house for Thanksgiving anyway, felt like the ex-wife, got so fucking stoned I could barely move but I did manage to drag myself off the couch for karaoke, OBVIOUSLY, I still love him in a lot of ways, where the HELL is my alimony, bitch?!

Miss Ambrosia Salad. Love you you fucking crazy bitch.

Hey, we found a tv. Fuck it.

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