Piss, moan, and fish.

I had today’s post all planned out.

I was going to lead with the stunning declaration that Michael Jackson called me last night. Then, in the second paragraph, I would declare triumphantly how he was so impressed by the fan letter I’d sent him (written in Chinese, no less), that he’d decided to call me. We had a nice chat about his recent move; he read the letter back to me (in Chinese), which impressed me so much that I wondered what other languages he was fluent in.

I was so ready to tell you this that I could literally see the words forming on my blog.

Then I woke up. I realized it was all a dream. No Michael Jackson phone call. I don’t think he can speak Chinese, and I’m not even sure I’m a fan.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

So I have nothing to tell you. Nothing except that last night I realized and accepted for the first time that even I, fearless Leslie of the earth, am susceptible to menstrual hormones.

Last night, everything Jason said made me unhappy. He was skeptical about my super plan to make us money, he laughed at my brilliant idea to improve our communication, and he still would not allow me to buy a kitten or a caged pet of any kind. Even when I asked him, “Do you think you’ll ever stop loving me?” he answered, “I don’t know. I can’t tell the future.”

Claaang goes the bad answer gong! Leslie unhappy.

Finally he ceded and assured me that he planned to love me forever, and that fish could be a fun starter pet. “We’ll go buy fish this weekend,” he said. “Promise.”

Fish, huh? Well…okay.

Better be some damn good fish.