Another topic which came up in the comments:

I’m not on Red Eye tomorrow, though I’ll be appearing the following week. This kind of thing is just a scheduling thing and not at all what I was referring to when I said on Twitter earlier that I got kicked in the professional nuts. You know, smacked in the professional groin. Hit in the professional nads. Punched in the professional baby makers.

That last one was kind of gross.

What was I referring to?

A polite rejection form letter which made me feel like I’M SORRY, COME AGAIN? Are you sure this isn’t some kind of mistake?

Because, see, you know those writers who have writing rooms plastered with rejection letters? I’m not one of them. I don’t have a writing room for one and for two, everyone who reads my stuff loves it. I got into the college of my choice early admission. I’m a very successful and lovable person. Glass ceiling? I simply pushed on it and it opened. Love and relationships? They all go swimmingly. My hair? FRIZZ FREE. Once I cooked a three minute egg in two minutes. At some point the above diverged from reality but what I’m saying is I’ve been exceedingly lucky in the professional rejection department in that I haven’t experienced too much of it. I’m not going to say I haven’t experienced any, because of course I have especially in the last few years, ok also and when I first moved to New York, but for the most part I reserve rejection for people I’m dating.

So today’s rejection was swift and painful, and unexpected due to my own very generous opinion of my work.

That’s ok though, because it was just the fuck you I needed.

OK so it was brought up in the comments that you guys professed your love for me and then I turned around and called you my “internet bunions” which must have felt like being slapped with a thousand tiny gloves and also, it should be pointed out, “internet bunions” was suggested by Ted who has strong feelings about how we all should be addressed. I was happy to go on calling you corn nuts and enchiladas and various other snack food items.

But, you see, I think you guys heard me wrong. What I really called you was my “internet bunnies.” Not sticking? Then perhaps what you heard was?

internet buddies
internet bundt cakes
internet buddyroos
internet buns (?)

I could go on. Except I actually can’t think of anything else. So in this case, I can’t go on.

Because I did Geraldo I missed The Oscars and because I’m lazy I haven’t watched it on DVR yet and because I spend all my time playing with my hair and thinking about how fantastic everything will be when I put the finishing touches on my time machine and travel back to the day before my eye started twitching and I was able to look at myself in the mirror unfettered, I haven’t read too much of the coverage. So tell me, my internet bunions: (thank you Ted for my new favorite term!)

Did anyone wear any beaded monstrosities to the Oscars? I know I have about four female fans. Any of you aware of any beaded action? Or guys, perhaps you might be aware?

Do tell!

I love you more than life itself.

My sister called me tonight to tell me that while she isn’t a member of either of my Facebook fan clubs, she wants me to know that she’s my biggest fan. “I’m sorry, who is this again?” I asked. She tried to answer but it was hard to hear her over my yelling “you’re dead to me” and then admonishing my handlers for even putting the call through. It’s so tough to find good handlers these days. “Don’t handle me like that!” I’ll yell, when they’re manhandling my affairs. “Alison Rosen wishes to be left alone!” I’ll announce to my empty apartment, ordering my furniture into the street. “That includes you, futon!” I’ll declare, even though I don’t have a futon. I don’t even want to tell you what I say to my bean bag chair. It verges on obscene.

In other news I made coffee today with a French press because I have one and never use it. Then I pressed fresh flowers in it (Freesia and dandelion) and then I pressed my luck with it and then I pressed two dress shirts and a small run of bibles.

Then I took a nap.