My brain hurts, my leg hurts, my everything hurts. I didn't sleep well last night, I didn't lose sleep for reasons as fun as I generally prefer, and I am not at present undisputed captain of my own ship of fate. At best I'm a Fletcher Christian-type character in that role, with nothing more than a thinly charismatic grip on a sex-with-Tahitians-crazed rabble of mutineers aboard a ship whose true captain has been put to sea.
Worst of all, I'm not in charge of my own travel plans.
One thing I've learned about the good life: there is exactly one problem with traveling via private jet, and that is if you are not the owner of said jet, you are the owner's bitch. There is a pithy metaphor in there somewhere but I've not the energy this morning or the yet the resurrected chops to plumb its depths so I'll leave that work for the student.
The questions I've gotten so far from a couple of people to whom I've mentioned this return are generally of the why did you stop, where did you go, and why come back now when this is so fucking pointless. Well, as to the first, boredom and other commitments, as to the second, no comment, now or ever, and as to the third, an attempt to re-institute some writing discipline and to keep the more extraneous tangents out of the manuscript as I work on The Cancer Years.
Also, there is a lot of stuff that I don't understand, and my questions will not be answered till I ask them, questions that eat at my very soul, like "Why is Rachel Ray? When the fuck did that happen and why didn't one of you stop it?"
For the couple of people that keep telling me you miss the stories and general bad behavior of NITBC, no worries, I'm back in old form. Mayhem ensues, apologias end, and from this point forward the Winning Team is back in action, out of retirement and ready to go.
How could it not be when Jill is handing out dirty pop-up books left and right, and Heather (sadly lost to LA this past two-year, but at least giving us a base of operations around the corner from Barney's Beverly Hills) is planning a 24-hour blitzkrieg assault on NYC's liquor and boy supply this weekend.
Fun. Daddy. T-Bird. Away.
