The Reverse Crying Game
This morning on the bus, I came very close to asking Forrest Whitaker for his autograph.
After a ten minutes of surreptitious glances and excited shuffling of my feet, an important question occurred to me:
What the fuck is Forrest Whitaker doing on a bus in downtown Brooklyn at 8:15 on a Thursday morning?
And then, another thought:
He should either get a stylist, or fire the one he has. Damn.
Good thing those particular thoughts entered my mind before I resolved to bother Mr. Whitaker.
Because, of course, the person seated across the aisle was not, in fact, Forrest Whitaker.
Furthermore, the person seated across the aisle was, in fact, a woman.
Yet again, I'm startled and impressed by my own brilliance. Woot!
[Novel update: 1, 819 words down...48,181 to go. Aaron has joined the cult...er, quest. Sweet.]
After a ten minutes of surreptitious glances and excited shuffling of my feet, an important question occurred to me:
What the fuck is Forrest Whitaker doing on a bus in downtown Brooklyn at 8:15 on a Thursday morning?
And then, another thought:
He should either get a stylist, or fire the one he has. Damn.
Good thing those particular thoughts entered my mind before I resolved to bother Mr. Whitaker.
Because, of course, the person seated across the aisle was not, in fact, Forrest Whitaker.
Furthermore, the person seated across the aisle was, in fact, a woman.
Yet again, I'm startled and impressed by my own brilliance. Woot!
[Novel update: 1, 819 words down...48,181 to go. Aaron has joined the cult...er, quest. Sweet.]
posted by Helen the Felon at 2:21 PM
2 Comments:
I got up early this morning to get started!
are you the woman who once asked me for an autograph, thinking i was antonio banderas? (i look *nothing* like antonio banderas.)
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