I found an image of Bea Arthur's head on l'internet, and made it into a t-shirt. This picture of me wearing it was taken by the new gay in the office. The new gay apparently blogs for Huffington Post, and he wrote a post about Bea Arthur's death that I found shocking. You may read it here:
I want everyone to know that the new gay has a printout of a picture of David Foster Wallace hanging up in his cubicle - Wallace is the writer who died of suicide recently. Tomorrow, I am going to replace that printout with a picture of starving babies. :)
I used to think that in life, I was "Dorothy" from the Golden Girls. Now I think I'm an amalgam of Dorothy, Sophia (who had had a stroke, and couldn't control what she said), and Blanche (the slut). I wonder when I'll turn into Rose? Probably when Alzheimer's sets in.
I see Alzheimer's approaching me, always getting closer, like an annoying pedestrian. On mornings like this, I sort of think that when it finally overtakes me, it will be a relatively smooth transition.
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