Oh man was I in a crappy mood today. Never mind all the whys and wherefores, it was just one of those mornings you have sometimes when you decide no one actually gives a shit whether you live or die. Then, as I went through the morning I had scheduled, some calls came and my morning got all unscheduled. Snapping and snarling, I headed off for a meeting with Ezra and the rest of the Alien crew.
It was a lunch meeting, and my friends sang "Happy Birthday" to me with exceptional harmony, and Shelley Winters was one table over, and I really wanted to stay in a crappy mood but it was just impossible. At one point, Ezra, who has been reading my blog (what, somebody's actually reading this stuff?), started asking me about--nay, grilling me about--my absurd farce of a love life. "So what kind of a woman do you want?" he asked repeatedly.
The interesting thing is that I ducked the question and never answered. Because after I left, he went on to his Dear Alien blog and wrote up this. Go ahead and read it; that's definitely me he's talking about, and even though it's severely unnerving to see your life made art (public art), I have to admit: what he wrote is a damned beautiful piece of work, and it actually made me sit up and see myself spun around from this whole different angle.
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