Truth number one: Sometimes I wish I could get my boyfriend to try beard products. It's not like there's anything wrong with his beard (it's quite nice), and I don't know what beard oil does exactly, and he'd certainly never go for it. But still, my instincts say it's a good idea. The same instincts, however, that make me want to dress my dog in tuxedo and name my unborn children after obscure post-modern literatary characters.
Truth number two: About 7 and a half years ago, when my dad was in the middle of writing a journal/sitcom/novel/memoir about himself and his brothers and sisters, he found out he was sick. Very sick. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to see why his records of all the hilarious conversations over the last 50-something years suddenly turned to more serious topics. After breaking the news to his family and colleagues, and after his first round of chemo, he wrote the first draft of his eulogy. This was years before he died, and in the meantime he got healthy enough that he must have destroyed the file: too morbid, or something. My confession? I came across it, and read the whole thing. No, not the whole thing. I skimmed it for my name.
Truth number three: I dunno, those were pretty honest right there.
Nothing is visually exciting this week. I've been working on some fake pages for a graphic novel Emily Carroll is doing for our simulation publishing company, but I can't put those up for fear of some sort of copyright backlash.
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