I gave your mother a bouquet when we met up that evening. She gave me a v.d. when we met up that night.

I don't normally like to talk about my personal life in this blog. Why? Well, for one thing, I don't want it turning into one of those blogs. You know the ones. The personal diaries that detail, boringly, the lives of the boring about whom nobody cares, you ask? No, not at all. I'm talking instead about the blogs--I'm sure we've all seen at least three or four--that are just full of exciting stories of Himalayan climbs, fights with kangaroos, escapes from stalled airplanes, and the like. I mean, come on! Everyone knows there's no place in a society fuelled by big-budget films for written accounts of exciting events. The written word is now the province of consumer guides on yarn and price lists for beard trimmers.

What does all that mean? What am I trying to say? None of that is important, because I'm going to make an exception to the talking about myself rule today. Today, I'm going to hike up a very tall mountain and attempt to sleep there. Why am I making an exception to tell you this? Well, not too get too sentimental about it, but if I die, I'd like to thank all of you.

And by "all of you," I mean the 1950s film director Ed Wood, Jr. I don't know why it's contingent on my dying either. I think we all owe Ed Wood a debt of gratitude for what he's done. Me specifically. You see, once I was in the supermarket trying to pick out a dental floss that would work on ten-inch tusks. I don't have ten-inch tusks, I swear, although you ought to be suspicious, since that picture of me doesn't show my face, but anyway, I turned in the aisle to ask a guy about it and he pointed to one that turned out to work pretty well.

Three years later, I saw Glen or Glenda (starring Lindsay Lohan?). Maybe that story shows why I never talk about myself in this blog. If you're not clever enough to figure it out from what I've said already, I'll spell it out for you:

-Eleanor