Sometimes I See Scott Wolf's Face In My Spaghettios.
Sometimes It Tells Me To Kill People.
And I Think I Just Realized My Mom Is Rain Man.
What's New With You?

Last night I dreamt I was on 20/20 to promote my new movie Career Opportunities: Part Deux and Barbara Walters somehow managed to twist the interview so I ended up confessing to getting a "D" in a Food and People class in college. Twice (If at first you don't succeed, try and don't succeed again, that's what I always say). I tried to laugh it off until she asked how many innocent baby chicks had died because of me (Yes, it takes a certain kind of person to fail to feed their assigned baby chicks the correct nutritional diet causing them to curl up and die). This is when I started sobbing uncontrollably and yet somehow managed to get out the words "Phone A Friend". Barbara wasn't having it though, she said "I'm not Regis F&cking Philbin, now answer the question, America deserves to know!" Luckily, this is when I woke up. Dear Sigmund Freud, what does it all mean? Am I secretly in love with Barbara Walters? Do I secretly wish there would be a Career Opportunities sequel? Do I still feel guilt over my secret freshman year baby chick massacre? Do I have a secret Regis Philbin fixation? I look forward to your analysis, as always (unless you are going to tell me again that I was weaned off my mother's breast too early, because really, that's starting to get old). Love, Me.


In other exciting and possibly related, possibly not related news, I think I have Mono or Monkey Pox or ADD or ADHD or OCD or PB&J or SOS or SOL. Symptoms include, but are not limited to, fatigue, sensitivity to light (when I say light I mean that Michael J. Fox movie Bright Lights, Big City), benevolent feelings towards Donald Trump, overwhelming desire to listen to Bananarama, a pain in my right leg when I attempt to Jumping Jack my way to A Newer, Happier Me, an inability to keep down any solid food other than Girl Scout cookies, and an unabashed fondness for perfume samples in magazines compounded with the need to Share The Scent, which, frankly, can only end badly, me being hauled off to the police station, my Coco Mademoiselle scented wrists in handcuffs, after trying to force innocent people to "SMELL MY WRISTS, GODDAMN IT!"

As you can see these symptoms are quite severe. So today I did what any other potentially disease ridden person would do, or at least what my mother would do when any of us kids were bleeding from the eye sockets or puking up Legos and she didn't want to take us to the doctor and miss People's Court; I called Ask-A-Nurse and asked if I was dying. Diagnosis, Murder? We'll never know. I grew too tired of holding the phone and had to hang up before I passed out in a puddle of drool and Thin Mint crumbs, but I'm pretty sure I heard something about how "If you commit yourself it's not really commitment" or maybe it was "You'll live forever if someone buys you a digital camera for St. Patrick's Day".
So. Yeah. All I ask of you is that someone sings "Venus" at my funeral. Preferably Donald Trump. With choreography by Paula Abdul. Thank You.
Really, I must sleep now.