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Psychophant of the Month!

First?  I have a fabulous G-Rated post up at Caryn’s house . . . Living With Logan.

My post is entitled Briefly Bedazzled, and guess what?  I have included an awesome photo of Kallan being Kallan.

Go check it out!

Back over here, I am slightly less appropriate . . . .

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Urban Dictionary (where all the cunning linguists hang out) defines Psychophant as . . . .

Psychophant:  A fan who is so over the top in her adoration that she comes across as an obsessed delusional lunatic, willing to endorse the object of her obsession to a psychotic and violent degree.

Psychotic and delusional and violent?  On my behalf?

I am all dampish at the thought.

I want.

So without further ado, I present . . .

Amy Willis

Pretty All True’s Psychophant of the Month!

Amy assures me that she is willing to totally whore herself out to make me look good!  There was some talk of nude photos.  I know! She is going to be bossy and commanding and totally insane with her demands that everyone she knows start reading Pretty All True! She is also going to threaten to leave burning bags of dog shit on their front porch steps if they do not comply with her demands.

Or perhaps she just said she would try really hard.

But there was subtext, people.  Nude photo subtext.

Swoon!

I am not going to repeat all of the details of the whole “Kris is taking over the blogging world and she needs to build a Facebook Army” plan.

KITOTBWASSNTBAFA for short.

Shorter version?  Amy will be working to add 50 Facebook fans to Pretty All True’s fan page in exchange for the placement of a link here on Pretty All True.

I just checked Pretty All True’s fan page, and I am at 699 fans.  So Amy will be working to bring that number to 749.  As soon as we reach 749?  I will put up Amy’s link for the rest of the month.

Yay, Amy!

People?  Help Amy.

I command it.

Which brings me to Phil Torcivia. Did you think I had forgotten about Phil?

Not fucking even.

I am Phil’s psychophant.

Phil is going to make me Facebook famous!

I am all psychophanty for Phil.

Now if you don’t know who Phil is?  I am annoyed with you.  Go read this post here in which Phil and I had sex in an alley and then he stole my pants and I went to jail and had trouble keeping my mouth shut.

I love Phil . . . in a totally delusional and obsessive and imaginary sort of way.

Reality?  Fuck reality.

I have invited Phil to sit down for a short interview, so that you might get to know him better.

“Phil, I have read your book, Nice Meeting You, and one thing jumps out at me.”

“I thought we were going to do an interview.”

“We are.”

“Why are you in the bathtub?”

“This is where I do all my interviewing.  I like to be prepared when things jump out at me.  The better question is . . . why are you not in the bathtub?”

So then he is.

I wait for him to get settled, “You ready?”

“Go.”

“Ack!  Phil!  Stop distracting me!  How am I supposed to interview you if you are doing that?”

“What?  You don’t want to be clean?”

“They’re clean, babe.  Thank you.  My readers want to get to know you better.  Focus!”

“Oh, I am focused.”

“Wait . . . what are you doing now?”

“I am counting the folds on your elbows.”

“Ooooooh . . . you are such a freak!  I love it!”

He lifts and straightens one of my arms in the air, slicks my skin free of bubbles, and leans his head to get a better view.  He strokes gently with his fingers, “One, two, three, four . . . and a half.”

I lean back into his embrace, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

He kisses my cheek, “It means you are about 45 years old.”

I splash noisily away, “Wait . . . what the fuck?  You are counting elbow rings to see how old I am?  Like I am a fucking tree?  That is insane and creepy!”

“What can I say?  Elbow skin freaks me out.  It’s all wrinkly and extra and disturbing and . . . old.  I can judge a woman’s age by her elbows.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.  Elbows need wrinkles so that the arms can bend.  Do you want me to walk around with my arms pinned at my sides?  I need flexing room.  Nothing to do with age, babe.  That’s insane.”

He makes himself a bubble beard and stares at me challengingly, “So how old are you?  Your elbows say you are 45.”

People?  My birthday is in just a few weeks.  I will be 45.

Fuck.

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

Phil laughs, “That’s what I thought.”

I splash water at his face, “You are pissing me off and this interview is terminated.”  I stand up in the bath and reach for a towel, “I am so fucking out of here.”

But then somehow?  I am persuaded to stay a while longer.

Phil is cunning.

Ahem.

But I am not done arguing, “Babe, this elbow thing is annoying.  Do I get all weird about the places on you that have a few extra folds?  A little extra skin?  No, I do not.  Because I am a grown-up.  I am mature.”

Phil pauses, “I know you are a grown-up.  You are 45 years old.”

Hmmmph.

I slide down into the bathtub, “How would you like it if I gauged your age by your extra skin?  Yes, let’s just see how old you are.”  I reach for him.  I slick the skin free of bubbles, and I lean my head to get a better view.  I stroke gently with my fingertips, “One, two, three, four . . . and . . . god damn it . . . now there are no wrinkles at all!”

Phil is suddenly impossibly young.

And then?

There is water everywhere.

Such a mess.

Phil leaves me to clean up while he goes to make himself a sandwich.

By the time I emerge from the bathroom, Phil is gone.  On the kitchen counter is a roast beef sandwich with a business card resting alongside . . . Such a Nice Guy . . . Phil Torcivia.

I take a bite of the sandwich and turn over the card . . .

“We’ll do the interview another time.”

Fuck.

I forgot to do the interview.

Phil distracted me.

Phil?

I’ll be in touch.

We need to set something up.


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    March 1st, 2011 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , |

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