(sorry for the lack of narrative in this post–it’s a good reflection of the inside of my brain right now)
song sound for 60 Minutes always bums me out. For decades now, that ticking clock has signaled the end of the weekend. Doesn’t matter if I hear it on a Wednesday afternoon or a Friday night. It’s Pavlovian.
There’s a certain someone from a far away place who is interested in being my pen pal. Here, check out the email I just received:
Hello! What is your name? At supervision of your structure I very much have become interested in you. My name is Anna. If you want with me to communicate then write to me. If you write to me do not forget to specify yours e-mail of the address that I could answer to you.
Quit checking out my structure, “Anna.”
In May, I’ll be able to check another state off my list when I spend a week and a half in Omaha for the Great Plains Theatre Conference. The Singularity will receive a reading and talkback, and I’ll get to spend some time just being a playwright around other people who are doing the same (many of whom probably get to just be a playwright more often than I).
Said by me in my kitchen last week, “Wow, look at the size of these breasts. All three of them are HUGE.” James didn’t know what to say as I jiggled them in his face.
The question I have is: What the fuck are they feeding these chickens? Has anyone else noticed how large chicken breasts have been lately? This is across brands, from organic to extra-pesticidey. I’m used to getting packages with four “regular” size breasts–solid B or C cup–but lately I’ve been getting more like two or three DDs. Unless these chickens are also working their legs, I’m not sure how they have the strength to carry their upper bodies around all day.