23-Sep-2005

I am the type of person who likes to know how things end.  If I'm reading a mystery, I'll call up my mom, who has undoubtedly disposed of the lowly fiction in one sitting, and ask her to tell me what happens.  And she'll tell me.  Because she loves me.  She's not like certain friends of mine who squawk, "What???  That'll spoil it for you."  No, it won't.  I love knowing the end so I can single out the clues, the red herrings, and the path that you can only see when looking back.  I love giving the all-knowing nod or the snobby smirk that is my trademark as I'm reading or watching.  It is infinitely more satisfying than the single anticlimactic moment that comes with the solving of the mystery.  Because the steps along the way are so much more intriguing.  Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not saying I want to know how my own life's going to turn out, or who's going to win the World Series of Poker in the year 2089.  If I knew what was going to happen to me, I'm sure I'd screw it up somehow.  Like, on the first date with the guy I was going to marry, I'd tell him that we were going to have one drug addict and one nympho as offspring, but they were attractive and we'd be rich once he got off his lazy pot-smoking ass and started his own company.  Or I'd totally skip a loved one's major surgery because I knew that a.) they'd turn out fine and b.) if left alone on that fateful night, my Tivo would fail to record a new episode of "Reba."  For all of you wanting to make fun of me right now, have you ever watched "Reba?"  It's fucking hilarious.  What's that?  You're never home Friday nights at 8?  Right.  Neither am I.  I swear.  No, I mean it.  Never have I ever zoned out in front of the television on Friday night with some cookie dough ice cream dribbling down my chin and onto my sexy-ass terrycloth robe.

Does anyone want to hang out tonight?  Must... escape... the WB.