I've basically been sleeping since Monday. I took a two-pound bag of dried satsumas and a box of Kleenex to bed hoping that 4 or 5 consecutive Ambiens might cure the horror of the New York Magazine gossip column piece about the book.
Did they read THE BOOSTER? Is the story NOT about a kleptomaniac who joins a Peruvian high fashion shoplifting ring? AN ENTIRE BOOK on Donny Deutsch? Hello! Anna Wintour he aint'. Woa is me.
So it got me thinking...remember all those cool chairs they used to have? Remember that album where Bobby Sherman is sitting on that really big red hand? Now THAT was a cover! Remember bean bag chairs when they were fer'real....like beans came out when you jumped on them?
Or maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Maybe I'm feeling a little like Jessica Simpson, caught looking all ugly n' stuff walking out a hotel room wearing the shirt off her one-night-stand's back. Or maybe I'm just thinking about those great Bobby Sherman lyrics (okay, I'm making you think I'm really, really old here, right?)....Being' alone at night makes me sad. Yeah it brings me down all right. Tossin' and turnin' and freezin' and burnin' and cryin' all through the night.