Today, my brother went to see the two towers without telling his adoring sister. She wept upon his return, and when asked why he did not let her know he was going to see the movie, he rolled his eyes. The scorned woman therefore made a pizza piled high with soy pepperoni, onions, olives and spinach and all the things her brother hates.

Eating that pizza in front of him was like Gollum watching Sam cook rabbit.

I think often "That is not my style." Many things are just not my style.

Earlier this evening, I said to my brother that "I should take my act on the road." I cracked up at the thought of me on stage - I think all I'd do is fall over (Paula Poundstone stole my thunder). He said "You should take your act to a therapist." He thinks I'm crazy. I think he isn't qualified to diagnose me.

Sometimes I am just very quietly pleased with all of you, and you don't necessarily know why, and I don't really tell you because it doesn't seem like the right thing to do, but I sit at home in my little house and smile inwardly.

I walked around at night, round the back yard, underneath the apple trees, following rabbit tracks and cat tracks and bird tracks. The cat caught something. It should have been quieter. The sky should have been black. But I didn't let it get me down.

2003-01-04, laughter

before / after

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