Kittens! I can’t tell you how much your comments and stories on yesterday’s post moved me. A few of them brought me to tears at my office desk, which was both touching and extremely socially awkward. I’d never really taken time to think about where I see myself in relation to domestic violence — I assumed that DV and I ran in different circles — but you guys have really convinced me that we all ought to be active observers, willing to take steps to avert potential tragedy.
So thank you guys for making my life better. And thank you for helping make me a better person.
That said, you know what good people do? Honor their friggin’ obligations! Apologies for the week-long wait, but, with no more ado, the ASK ME ANYTHING WINNERS! And thank you all so much for facilitating my self-absorption with your awesome questions! Both winners receive $5 Amazon gift certificates, which I have already emailed.
Winner, the first: Kate, who channeled James Lipton to ask:
What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
And, of course, what is your favorite curse word?
Three exceedingly good questions, which I mulled over for the better part of two hours and had a lot of fun answering here.
Winner, the second: Karolina, who played my weaknesses like Franz Liszt by asking:
1)Who’s your favorite member of The Drones Club? Which of the Eggs, Beans and Crumpets is, in your “humble” opinion the funniest, the dumbest or the most charming?
2)Could you please give some more excerpts of your pre-teen autobiographical ramblings?
Oh man, sucking up to teacher is an instant A+, apparently. My answers:
1) My favorite Drone is definitely Bingo Little, because he reminds me a lot of myself: he falls in love half a dozen times a day, is prone to embarrassingly showy gestures, and always makes a huge mess of it. Plus, I love that he’s the only Drone with an unswerving devotion to his life, who is an intellectual, literary lady whom I also quite admire.
Funniest Drone, for my money, is Freddie Widgeon, with his affable stupidity, easily won affections, and and fierce adherence to noblesse oblige. For stupidest, you’d have to search hard to find someone better than Tuppy Glossop at jumping for bad opportunities and alienating his loved ones, although I do like a man who values a midnight snack over his own matrimonial prospects. And most charming of course has to be awarded to Bertie Wooster — if only because that wildly agreeable con man Ukridge wasn’t an official Drone.
Man, also, as a bonus, because this is the one time I’ll ever talk about Wodehouse in such detail on the blog, my Drones crush: totally Oofy Prosser. He’s a self-absorbed skinflint with raging acne and zero social skills, but something tells me if I met him in real life, I’d be gazing soulfully at him within ten minutes. Sadly, all those dashing idlers were more likely to fall for tarted-up aristocrats with exquisite profiles and ’20s-racy names like Mabel. Something tells me that if Wodehouse were to write about me, I’d be cast as someone’s abomination of an aunt.
2) Yes you absolutely can have some more of my pre-teen ramblings! Here’s a poem that shows just how I earned the title Worst Teen Poet In Boston (subliminal message: come out in August to see me defend my crown of angsty thorns). For context, I wrote this in seventh grade and was absolutely not suicidal. I just thought that, in order to be an artiste (gag), one had to be actively courting death. Annotations in red.
i know it's illegal, dude, it totally is not but even still, what does that change? especially in nevada, the land of sin, and 99¢ shrimp cocktails. i actually still say this sometimes so where's the harm in exercising imagination? death must be nice. oh hey, nice day for a NON-SEQUITUR! but even though the fantasy of suicide is fun on occasion, I like how I'm trying to be rational here. "Oh, man, I totally understand the urge to shuffle yo'self off this mortal coil, but let's do it IN MODERATION, guys."i think i may have a problem... is it right that all i do is think, "geez, i'd love to be dead"? instead of enjoying life? and here I have lost the fine distinction between "poetry" and "just kind of having an excessively angsty conversation with yourself" everything i do becomes justification, everything i tie, my hands work invariably into a noose. WHERE IS MY FUCKING PULITZER. is it a hint? from god? or myself? that, really i'd be better off gone? I actually wanted to say "better off dead" here, but was afraid that when this poem won its Pulitzer (see previous note), the producers of that John Cusack movie would sue me. maybe i'll try it sometime, y'know, just for kicks and see, if not anything else, where the attraction falls. but, when the knife hits its mark maybe i'll discover it's not what i want, and wind up in purgatory... again. Oh man, NAILED IT! You see what I did there? I am like the tween Maupassant of SEARING GODDAMN EMOTIONAL TWISTS!
Yeah, I was basically the most fun kid to raise EVER. Welp, that’s all I’ve got. Thanks for your questions, loves, and see you on Monday!