I just had a visit from Amy. No, the other one. (Having given considerable thought to what the opposite of Fucking Amy would be, I've settled on "Fuckless Amy.") She was visiting from Maine for training at her new job. In fine fashion, Microsoft repeatedly stepped on its own dick and rendered her trip utterly pointless. Except for seeing me, of course. Cough.
Sarah, Fuckless and I loitered around a bit. When the social fabric of your life is composed almost entirely of critical women, an unfortunate phenomenon happens. They meet. They drink. They compare grievances against you. They drink some more. And then, worst of all, they start planning your life for you. In this case (after I told the old last-time-I-saw-my-dad story), they very much agreed with one another that John should write a book of whiny reminiscences. They were insistent.
"No one wants to read that crap," I objected. Then they brainstormed a list of best-selling whiny reminiscences.
"Okay, maybe I don't wanna read that crap."
They made me a reading list.