I decided today that I would start a blog.  Starting blogs isn’t as easy as someone might think.  I for one thought it would be super easy, judging from the amount of total morons (I almost typed total half-wit, but how would such a thing be possible?) who seem to be able to publish them.

First things first, I thought.  Gotta have a name.  I started by asking my friends which words popped into their brains first when they thought of me.  Take it from me, kids, unless you have a stash of pills and a bottle of booze, do NOT invite your friends to tell you what they think of you.  Eventually inspiration found me while driving my roommate Dustin to the Red Line in Universal City, where I had an unexpected attack of Divalepsy.

You probably know someone with Divalepsy; you just didn’t know what to call it.  Divalepsy is a little bit like Tourette’s; just instead of inappropriate words and phrases, the sufferer randomly and without warning will spout quotes from film, TV, old Hollywood leading ladies, and pretty much anyone who has ever been nominated for a Tony, among other things.  I’m not entirely certain which is worse in a social setting.

So there we are, crawling down the 101, talking to Dustin about my blog idea and tossing name ideas back and forth when, in response to the traffic, I throw my hands in the air, and in my best Faye-Dunaway-as-Joan-Crawford, declare, “Oh! This is wonderful! This is wonderful! You…you deliberately embarrass me in front of a reporter…a reporter….I told you how important this is to me, I tol— Geoffrey Dearest.”

It just sort of happened.  And we both knew it was golden.

Let’s be honest: it’s a bit of a sad day when you realize that you are extremely comfortable with the fact that your personality is easily identifiable with that of a woman who is best known for beating her daughter with a wire hanger.  Which incidentally never happened, according to Christina.  I just don’t know if the movie would have had the same kitschy campy fabulousness without it, though.

I have a blog now.  I am a blogger.  I blog.  That was an excercise in grammar.

I think one common misconception about bloggers is that they haven’t got lives, or any friends, and just sit around all day pontificating in front of their computer screens.  This simply isn’t true.  I mean read one for Christ’s sake, all these pretentious blogging assholes do is tell you about the fabulous places they’ve been and the fabulous people with whom they were.  Well, I’ve got plenty of friends too, thank you very much.  The thing is, if I talk about myself or my opinions at them any more than I already do, I think they’re going to stop talking to me.

So, welcome to my brain.  It’s gonna be very, very interesting in here, but it’s not always pleasant.  Sometimes I’m mean.  Really mean.  But come on, when you watched 101 Dalmatians, who were you more interested in watching?  Cruella De Vil, or those irritating, yappy little fuckers?

Before I close, one last thing: if you think I’m talking shit about you, there’s a good chance I am… but it behooves no one to become offended before you receive confirmation.