Apparently I was on drugs in the 7th grade.

I cleaned out my closet at home tonight. I don't know where to begin.

I knew it was going to be a special adventure when I pulled out a journal that I had kept maaany years ago pretending to be a rather unfortunate woman named Annie May Austen, who, at the age of 17, was pregnant with her second child, and whose young husband had died tragically of a drug overdose. I don't know why I even knew what that was. I watched a lot of talk shows which probably explains why I thought 17 was an acceptable age to have two children at. Because it was rather commonplace on Maury. Also, I named my two children Aaron Archibald Austen and Ellie May Austen. AND, after my husband died, changed my name back to my maiden name (Austen) because I was offended by his death. I was offended by many things. "About my husband dying of a drug overdose," I wrote. "It makes sad. And also offended."

I don't think I knew the meaning of that word.

"Mrs. Willis," I wrote to my fifth grade teacher in my pragmatic poem "SPAM" after she had given us all samplings of SPAM to teach us to be inspired to write by even the most mundane object, "what the heck is SPAM? Because you said it was meat, but it isn't. I'm offended that you gave me this. And the kid next to me ate his. Isn't that gross? That's gross, Mrs. Willis." Besides the obvious fact that I was born to be a poet, I was beginning to notice a trend. Everything in the world offended me.

"DO NOT OPEN THIS JOURNAL," I wrote in the "belongs to" space of said journal. "It has an alarm. You can't see it, but it's there, and if you open it, it'll go off, but only so I can hear it, and I will be offended. And hit you."

I don't know who is responsible for getting me off this talk-show-super-guest path, but I can't decide whether you ruined me or saved me.

Because on one hand, I appreciate not being a mother of children named Aaron Archibald and Ellie May. But on the other hand, I'd be famous on youtube.

It's hard to say. 

I'll let you know as soon as you can pre-order them on Amazon

Victoria and I are generally baffled by the book Twilight. The male lead, Edward, defies all kinds of logic.

Victoria: Wait...on page twenty it says Edward's voice is musical, but on page twenty-three, it's velvety.

Sara: I didn't know velvet could be musical.

V: I once saw this fake velvet Christmas tie at the dollar store, and when you hit, it played Jingle Bells.

S: Well, I guess that's what they're referring to. That hardly seems appealing, does it? "His voice was like a dollar store tie that played Christmas songs"? Can that be right?

V: Unless we've missed a category of singing velvet, I think it must be.

 

Apparently he is all kinds of sexy, but we're having a hard time understanding the appeal.

Victoria and I have rather lavish plans of becoming best-selling authors ourselves, so whenever a book becomes as vastly popular as something like Twilight, we feel more or less obligated to read it. We're pretty sure each author has some sneaky, diabolical plan for how to get people to read their book, and we intend to discover this plan, and then use it ourselves. Hijack it, you could say. But with less implication of violence. What's the word for that? Commandeering? The not nice way of borrowing? I don't know. Let's just stay with hijacking and add some violence in there so it fits.

I'm feeling very generous tonight, so I'm going to give you a sneak-peek at some of the many titles we plan to soon make famous:

The Perilous Passions of Penelope

The Billionaire Italian Cowboy's Virgin Mistress's Secret Baby

High Seas and High C's: A Pirate's Quest to Star in Cats 

Jake Johnson and the Giant Geranium (critics say, "Like James and the Giant Peach, but better, because of the alliteration! Your kids will really appreciate that.")

The Day the Earth Kept Turning as Usual

We can hardly decide which one to write first.