ladies and gentlemen, we have a plot.

it's not like it's original or anything since, well, it's all about me me me, but what isn't really? (i assume my reputation for arrogant presumption has preceded me.)  but i mean, where else am i gonna get a plot in three days replete with character, names and locations? come on, a no-brainer, of which, incidentally, my ex-husband had to remind me. of course, i will fictionalize whatever i damn well please, because i am the author, motherfucker. so, if you are afraid to appear in my crappy, tell all, roman a clef, month-long novel, let me know, and i'll be sure to make you be the biggest fucking asshole prick in the book. i get to do what i want, bitch. no, really, i do. it's my book. gosh, novel writing and novel thinking has made me mean. well, i guess that's what genius does.

so, interestingly, i wikipedia-ed (it doesn't work as well as google to become a verb, eh?) autobiographical novel, and this entry came up. i know how fucking nerdy of me to wikipedia it, but whatever, it's my world, you are just reading about it. the interesting part was that after the definition, there is a list of famous autobiographical novels. something to note was Ballard's Crash is mentioned with this note after it: described as "an autobiographical novel in the sense that it is about my inner life, my imaginative life." two words: holy fuck. that was the sickest book i have ever read, man, and i have read some sick fucking books. i couldn't finish that shit, seriously. i mean, i did, but i was having some serious vomiting issues during parts of that. let's think happy thoughts, shall we? like, look it's blythe!