me, me, me, me, me

I hung out with Claudette this afternoon. She’s putting together the programme for this weekend’s burlesque show. I helped her out by scanning in the 8×10 glossies of all the performers, so they could be printed out at a more manageable size.

“Thank you, Philip,” said Claudette after I finished. She gave me a hug and said, “You are nice.”

“Well, it’s a good thing all these photos are on my hard drive now,” I said.

I set about photoshopping myself into a black-and-white photo of one of the burlesque models, so it looked like I had my tongue out on her.

“——- will kill you if you post that on the Internet,” said Claudette.

“Hey check this out,” I said. “Burlesque stars, making out with me… on the moon.”

Claudette took over the computer so she could check her email. She read a few blogs.

“What the fuck is wrong with everybody? Let’s see if I can find someone else who’s having a shitty day,” she said. She clicked around and popped up on the screen. “You haven’t written anything in a while.”

“How about, ‘life sucks the world is coming to an end, blah blah burlesque show blah blah blah.'”

“‘Me, me, me, me, me, me, me.'”

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