hello, sarahk

Sarahk, you know I love you. Oh, how I love you. So I feel I must share something with you.

Something I won’t be doing for you even though I love you, oh, how I love you, blahdie blahdie blah.

I won’t, repeat WON’T, be going down to International Comic-Con 2009 — a mere, oh, five miles from me at the San Diego Convention Center — to see all the stars of Twilight: New Moon who are in town for a “panel discussion” and a screening of said movie.

Nope.

Can’t do it. The crowds, the fan boys, the costumes, they skeer me. They give me the bends and gout and cause me palpitations and kidney failure. It’s true. I’m all about truth here, as we all know. I’m a withered crone and cannot be expected to be out in that environment. I mean, if some fan boy brushed up against my brittle bones, I could turn to dust in an instant. It could be poof! no more Tracey and you wouldn’t want that, would you?

Would you?

Oh, plus — bummer — it’s all sold out and probably has been since 1573. So boo hoo hoo on that.

But, really, I still love you, Sarahk, despite all this damning evidence to the contrary.

Here’s what I will do: I will call my friend M who is a concierge at a shi-shi poo-poo hotel in la-di-dah La Jolla and see if she’s seen any Twilight celebrities, okay? She always tells me who she sees: Drunken NFL players. Marlon Brando demanding Mexican food. You know, your basic ho-hum stuff.

That I will do for you.

Honestly, Sarahk, I don’t know how much more sacrificial my love for you could be.