Am I the only person who thinks Dooce is an imaginary creature? Like, I know she’s real, but in my head she’s real the same way that Jesus is real. Like he used to be a real-live person but now he’s like Santa Clause…everywhere at once but not actually anywhere you can find on google maps. To me, Dooce is like a little hobbit. Awesome but mythical. So basically a mythical hobbit is going to be at Blogher. I’m going to San Francisco to see a mythical hobbit. This is weird. And is totally something I’m going to say to her if I happen to meet her. It will be ugly.
I bought this new dress for blogher. I can’t decide if it’s so ugly it’s cute or if it’s just regular ugly. I’d show you a picture but I don’t want to ruin the surprise of ugliness. Maybe the shock will be so great that people will just assume I’m ultra-hip and cutting edge. Unless they also went to Ross-Dress-4-Less recently. Then I’m fucked.
Speaking of fucked, I got selected to read some of my work at the Blogher keynote address which is a tremendous honor and just a…horrible, horrible idea. I love Blogher but this is the same organization that felt it needed to drop the “Jesus” from my “Thanks for the zombies, Jesus” post, and yet, in a matter of days they will be give me a microphone and a stage. It’s like they’re daring me to say the c word.
It’s a dare they are going to lose.
If you hear weird shit about me being fat and drunk at BlogHer or see pictures of me passed out in my own vomit just know that those are lies spread by my enemies, unless they are saying that I got handcuffed and hauled off by the cops for screaming the c word onstage because I’m fairly sure that shit is going to happen.
PS. Did you know you can go on the heritage website and they’ll morph you into whatever celeb you most resemble? Apparently I resemble Lucille Ball by 67%. Very flattering.
And, apparently, Pete Dogherty coming off a heroin binge by only one percent less.
Not. quite. as flattering.
PPS. We’re trying for a live broadcast hosted by Gwen Bell and Kirtsy at The People’s Party so if you can’t make it to Blogher and you haven’t already stopped reading this post you can make it to the party in spirit. If we can get it together I’ll post the link here. Most likely it’ll be grainy video of me and a three other chicks crying and drinking Jack Daniels on the floor after our sound system breaks and we accidentally set a fire to the room. (The link will go here if we ever figure it out.)
Updated: Okay, we have a link to watch the party! Unless something goes horribly wrong and we end up with the black screen of the holocaust and then you can just pretend that it’s just really, really dark and quiet at our party.
Updated again (Sunday after blogher): The link to the party got fucked, I hid in the bathroom for 4 hours during the party having panic attacks, at the community keynote I said the c-word 3 times and almost pulled the stage curtain down on me because I was drunk, and apparently Dooce has a thing against hobbits.
(Long-ass) Comment of the day: Every time I see “Blogher” in print I am transported back to the 12th century to a scene that in my head goes something like this:
Ten days into their crusade, an Archbishop and his minions approach a woman on the street.
“Do you know the Lord Jesus as your savior?” asks the Archbishop.
“Zombie Jesus?”
“No, the regular one.”
“Um, not so much…”
The Archbishop turns to his minions and commands, “Blog her!”
The minion holding the cat-o-nine-tails finally speaks up.
‘”Excuse me, your Lordship…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you mean ‘flog’ her? All this time you’ve been saying ‘blog her’ and ‘blog him’ and I don’t think that’s correct.”
“You question my grasp of the King’s English? Tell me your name, young man.”
“Buck Hugh.”
“What?”
“Buck Hugh, your Lordship.”
“Insolent Bool! Blog him too!”
I’m pretty sure that happened, but I couldn’t find it recorded anywhere on Wikipedia, so I might be wrong.
~ I can’t read my nametag
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