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so, like, if i were the kind of person who bitched all the time about every little thing that pissed her off, i’d probably tell you about the guy who cut me off last night on the sunset strip, and while i was at it, i’d probably mention that i hate that part of town because of drivers like him, and because you can’t park anywhere for less than eight dollars, and because the number of men with greasy hair and shirts unbuttoned two too many times is drastically high.

if i were on a roll, i’d explain that i was only there to see a friend perform in an improv comedy show, which was — despite his modesty — pretty good. unfortunately, i’d add, i was sitting beside a casting agent wearing too much perfume, and she didn’t clap or laugh or smile, not even once.

that would remind me of my neighbor out back who i’m convinced has three other people shacking up in her one-bedroom apartment. these three people never acknowledge me or my roommate when we’re inches away from each other, yet have no problem running past our windows at 4 in the morning, shrieking and giggling like high school girls at a slumber party.

speaking of high school, i’d tell you, there is a naughty high school kid who gave his teacher my phone number as his own, so i get voicemails all the time about his grades and his health, and i can’t even contact the school to tell them to stop calling me because i can’t understand half the things they say.

i’d offhandedly remark that last night i sketched an obese garfield on a cocktail napkin that made me think of elvis in his late southern-fried days. i would crack a smile, until i noticed that the pen i used to make the drawing leaked in my favorite purse.

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