I'm not having fun...I'm drunk.
I can’t believe I survived a thousand mile road trip from hell with Jeni Decker only to come home and choke to death on a bug. Well, not quite to death. But if the phone rings, I won’t be answering it (unless you’re an agent or publisher) because my throat feels like I swallowed a sandpaper popsicle. I hope the bug is dead because I don’t relish it laying a million eggs anywhere inside me, especially my colon.
I can only blame my lack of judgment as far as the road trip goes on menopause. That, and not understanding ahead of time that Jeni Decker is a trouble magnet.
I can’t write about the trip right now, or the book we wrote describing it. I’m too busy worrying about what’s growing inside of me. I suspect Karl Rove might have sent the bug with a message for me. Don’t publish this book.
I have a message for Mr. Rove. Suck it.
