Why don’t you pop a garbage can full of popcorn and sit down on your most comfortable couch and watch Feud from beginning to end? Reader, I cannot get over this show. Never in all my days did I ever think I would see the story of my beloved Joan Crawford treated so beautifully. I shan’t get too much into it now because I will never stop. Let me just say that for the first time, Ryan Murphy didn’t let me down. So, reader, watch the show. Bring tissues because you will cry. Also bring a martini because that’s the requisite cocktail for Old Hollywood glamor. Oh, I’m so happy.
Why don’t you create yourself a little hideaway so that you can escape the world whenever necessary? I always have grand schemes about shacks in the desert, cottages deep in the woods, and monasteries next to rivers, but it needn’t be so complex. I need a spot to go where I can just have assured quiet for a few hours once in a while. I almost need a simple little studio where I can just go and get my work done without worrying about distractions. I have too many distractions. So many people and projects and plans.
Why don’t you write a one-act play about your life? Picture it: me in a black turtleneck, black pants, black shoes, black glasses. There’s a black stool, a single spotlight, a jaunty cellist that I never acknowledge, a crate of Fiji water, and a martini that the cellist occasionally refills throughout the course of the play. This is about as far as I’ve gotten. I think it’ll be an absurdist comedy because that seems to be the theme of my life. I’ll tell my Joan Fontaine story and sing a nineties country hit and then I’ll win a Tony. I think that’s how it works.
Why don’t you cook yourself up a Middle Eastern feast for dinner and eat it alone and savor in the solitary bliss whilst dreaming of the desert and the warbling of camels? I do this regularly, and it’s a great blessing. I like to have lentil soup, shakshuka, tabbouleh, chunks of feta, karkade, and whole wheat pitas. All of it is homemade, of course, and it’s utterly fabulous. For me, there’s nothing more rewarding than a feast of my favorite foods. Make yours tonight, reader!
Why don’t you splurge and have a rebellious night’s rest on your couch instead of bed? There’s something decadent about not sleeping in your own bed, I feel. Don’t ask me why. I don’t rightly know. Whenever I decide to sleep on the couch in my lounge, I just feel so relaxed and luxurious and elegant with my YouTube fireplace roaring and a couple Walmart candles flickering and a cat purring and the space heater cranked to eighty degrees. It’s the height of chic.