After the Klingon debacle in which I nearly lost my mother (don't ask) I determined never to write anything personal again. However, since my life is an open source of inspiration and pain, what would that leave me with? Nada. So I determined to start a new blog, one which told the truth about me and my rather interesting escapades, the type I can't tell my mother about, and then I realized that I basically don't have any. I mean, I can quote from some swanky text messages mistakenly sent my way (my favorite two being from the same guy, one year apart: "It wd B g8 f u cld b r surrogate"was the first one, sent to my barren womb about three years ago. Then, the following CHRISTMAS DAY, "My girlfriend say yr picture do U wanna have 3some with us. PS don't tell my wife." Touching, simply touching. I could write about skanky Beijing up the ass and back again, but since no one is going near my tail, what's the point? The most touching thing I did this week was to teach my drama class to sing "Smile" (the Charlie Chaplin song) and to come close to weeping as their little faces lit up as they sang. They liked it. Ten year olds have a surprising amount of good taste.
In the news: 48 year old woman wonders what the hell happened to her neck...
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