The author decorates his new Study.
It’s late. I’m tired. And earthquaked
. I’d no sooner finished up my final box of bric-a-brac
placement, when the latest in seismic waves rocked my little piece of Los Angeles
What occurred in my imagination was far more dramatic than what actually took place. In my mind, my bookshelf toppled over on me and I was knocked unconscious by my collection of creepy, antique clowns
. Naturally the wound would cause me to fall into a coma, and since the boyfriend
is in Vegas
for the weekend, I wouldn’t be discovered until late tomorrow. Although he’d rush me to the hospital (taking time to wolf down a Cliff Builder Bar
– this candy bar masquerading as a protein supplement he’s addicted to) and I’d be put on life-support, my vegetative state would last for days
By the time I came out of the coma, I would have lost 180 pounds (making me a very fashionable 5 pounds) and my speech would sound like a recitation of Dada
poetry. For some reason I’d be scared of celery
, too, though the doctors would never understand why.