i've decided my dream job- aside from writing biography or living in dubrovnik and doing nothing all day- would be writing tabloid headlines. because, really, can anything be more fulfilling? imagine the sense of accomplishment that must follow after penning a masterpiece like this:JENNIFER LOVE HEWITT: Why She Called Off Her Wedding. The dress was bought, a date was set. How jealousy, fights, and her insecurities exploded at the last minute.
if i should ever be so unfortunate as to do anything warranting tabloid attention (dear God, please no), i would hope to garner a headline of comparable quality.
OLINE EATON: Why She Killed the Vieve. How dance parties, puking, and emotional eating destroyed their lives.
8 comments:
Who would be doing the puking and emotional eating? Would that be you or the Vieve?
that would be the vieve. i would be the person buried under the blankets shouting, shut the hell up.
joke or not, you better pray my better half doesn't get wind of your faux-headline. There might be a late night knock on the door followed by lips of disapprovaliest lips you ever saw.
i'm sure even the croft, in the very very depths of her wee hours of the morning heart, has wanted to throw the bear man and pik-stik across the room once or twice.
i dunno. even implied dead cats is too close to real dead cats. At the very least you'll be hearing from her attorney.
you would not believe the gossip bomb your lady dropped on me during our lunchtime walk-about in walgreen's. i've yet to recover.
my wife's pregnant, isn't she.
(Oline, it's be great knowing you. By the time you hear from my wife's attorney i will be dead. Cause of death? Joke defenestration)
she's not. but for a horrifying, not nearly brief enough moment she made it sound as though that were her new year's resolution.
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