A Mental Pilaf Made From Quinoa, Denim and Bite-Sized Chunks of Dean Butler

One should not let an opportunity slip away to celebrate being number one. Okay, so it's not the number one Publisher's Weekly three-book-at-auction deal for the week, but it feels good. Ready? Wait for it...wait for it...
Dean Butler shirtless.

Yep. Test it out. Ga-head, Google it. Number one, baby. Woooooo!

I'm completely distracted today because I didn't get enough sleep last night. I watched the celebrity-fat cinema experience that was Valentine's Day then was sad that it was a good two hours of my life I'd never get back. Think of the literary masterpieces I could have consumed in that time. Think of the literary masterpieces I could have generated in that time. Not even a gay Bradley Cooper character was worth that.

Anyone here ever eaten quinoa? These little parasite-wormy-like grains love my keyboard. Normally I don't eat while I write because I get ocular migraines and have to take screen-time-outs, but remember how awesome edits are going? I wanted to work straight through lunch yesterday and my quinoa wanted to jump ship to beneath my M key. Longest game of Operation with a mechanical pencil lead. Ever. And while we're on bizarre grains, all this week I've been eating from a bread loaf labeled Ancient Grains.  Does the mere application of the word ancient make it somehow healthier? What about stoic grains?

Mostly today, though, I'm mourning the departure of my favorite jeans. So instead of working on my gun-chase-through-a-major-urban-area scene, I'm wisely flexing my writing muscle today by writing a missive to the Levi Strauss Company that they will, most likely, never see:

Dear Levi Strauss execs,

I have a been a faithful customer for longer than Madonna has had Devo chest armor. I hung with your brand through years when your designers thought hey, let's spread those back pockets and make a woman's ass look larger. I hung with you when your red labels went geriatric large-print and made me look like my backside was part of a presidential motorcade. I hung with you when waistlines plunged lower than The Situation's IQ  because, hey, nothing is sexier than ass-crack-and, well, women don't need to sit down anyway. But then you stopped making my favorite number and your outlet sales clerk felt my pain about as much as getting her text allowance cut by five. Jeans aren't just pants for women. They are a full-on relationship. Thus, I am ending ours. Sure, Calvin Klein's swanky back pockets are so far south it makes me look like I'm packing heat or worse--bad rap tunes on my ipod; and sure, DKNY jeans are sized for DiNKY elf-like creatures, but I shall prevail in my search.

Sincerely,

A non-geriatric, non ass-crack consumer

Whew! I feel so much better. Thanks for letting me Ranty McRant. Now I can get back to some heat-packing of the fictional variety.