So last night, I traveled 75 miles one way for opening night of "Sex and the City" with one of my favorite bitches, Diane. It was a brief rendezvous, the night monopolized by the 2-hour long big screen version of this decadent guilty pleasure. There's not another person with whom I'd choose to drive so far for a flick, other than Diane, she's fabulous.
But I had to drive home after the film, the few minutes we had to chat was not nearly enough to digest it. Diane immediately raised the point that if she were Carrie (and among us Bitches, she is) she couldn't take back Big. It was so wrong and so right, at once.
To take my mind off the movie and the need to see it AGAIN, numerous times, I listened to the genius of comic David Cross. 
And when I got home, I continued my read of "John Adams." But when I slept, did I dream of David Cross? No. Did I dream of John Adams and the snarkiness of Jefferson? No. I dreamt of drinking tall pints of thick, black Guinness with creamy 1-inch heads. I dreamt of ruby cosmos and Big and exploding bouquets of white flowers. And I dreamt of Charlotte . . . shitting herself.
And when I got home, I continued my read of "John Adams." But when I slept, did I dream of David Cross? No. Did I dream of John Adams and the snarkiness of Jefferson? No. I dreamt of drinking tall pints of thick, black Guinness with creamy 1-inch heads. I dreamt of ruby cosmos and Big and exploding bouquets of white flowers. And I dreamt of Charlotte . . . shitting herself.I woke up in a puddle of sweat, hungover. Diane, my fabulous Bitch, you are the devil, even in my dreams.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Wanna rub my belly!