I Acted Like I Had The Flu, But Really I Was Hung Over As All Getout

Today I was absolutely, positively, disgustingly hung over. Last night I talked to Ginab for several hours, and when I talk to Ginab I like to drink beer, and well. . .

I did, however, show up to work on time, and while parallel parking on a steep hill I sort of rolled into the bumper of the car behind me. I drive a stick, you see, and when trying to engage first gear on the uphill I don't always make it. So anyway, I tapped my bumper into the other car's bumper after having rolled backwards the crucial extra six inches. This happens all the time in San Francisco, the bumper thing. No big deal.
Except the owner of the car parked behind me was like spying on me, and of course she came scuttling over to inspect her own bumper (which bore no evidence whatsoever) and to shriek at me. Apparently she was watching from behind her own car (a Toyota something, not much newer than my own piece of junk), just waiting to see if I'd fuck up. Or maybe I mean she was praying that I'd fuck up. Either way she was lurking back there for a while, because I'd been jockeying my car back and forth for at least five minutes before I made contact with her precious bumper.

Since she was shrieking, I rolled down my window in hopes that she'd get it out of her system sooner. I guess I was thinking that the shrieking combined with the pounding-hangover-thing would sort of balance out my karma and the universe would decide I'd been punished enough. But no. The woman demanded an apology and claimed that when I tapped her own car (which, I remind you, she was standing behind), her own car had bumped into her leg and injured her.

Which, I knew she was exaggerating her ass off. I asked if there was anything I could do for her. This woman said that no, though her leg hurt, she'd be all right in an hour. Again she demanded an apology and said that I should really not bump into someone's bumper when a human being is standing (or, as I would put it, hiding) behind her car. I explained that I didn't see her and that the tapping thing was a huge mistake and I again asked if there was anything I could do for this screaming woman. She repeated herself, still shrieking, and I realized that I was on the verge of something huge! -- puking, I was on the verge of vomiting -- and then, suddenly, this woman went away and I didn't even have to pretend to be sorry.

Whew!

After that I opened up the store, which looked fantabulous, thanks to me. I'd spent nine hours straight the previous day making the place look spiffy. And since the store was so spiffed-out and I was so very, shall we say, ill with the flu, I decided to check out this new book we'd gotten in, as opposed to busting ass. It's called Post Secret.

But first, look at this:


So here's the story -- Post Secret is an art project. Participants are supposed to create and then send an anonymous post card on which they admit a secret they've never told a soul. The book is full of images of these cards.

It's a relief to read about other peoples' secrets and to know that my own deepest and darkest secrets are really kind of common. I thought I was a freak, but I guess I'm not! I'm mediocre! YAAAAY!!





Here's the story behind the book, should you want to participate by sending a card (I'm thinking about it myself, but I'm secretly reluctant to do it because it's anonymous and if I made this really cool card and got into the book, I'd want everyone to know so I could pretend to be modest about it).

Okay, and one more before I go. . .


See you again real soon, suckas!