And I Don't Know How To Use My Phone, Either

So, a major publishing company has fallen. Our E-Mail isn’t working today. Meaning I have even less work than usual. Meaning I finally have time to offer a real update. But I don’t feel like it. Instead, I’m going to tell you what I’ve done today.
• Scheduled an interview for a full-time job here in Adult Editorial, so I can get paid to basically do this. It’s tomorrow. Of course, I immediately wished I had scheduled it for Monday, so I would have more time to pick out an outfit, then wash it. I haven’t done laundry in a while. I bring a few outfits home to Jersey, do them there, and subsist on that each week.
• Planned all the book readings I’m going to for the next month or so. My shrink suggested it. Don’t judge me.
• Added about a hundred more books to my amazon wishlist.
• Counted the number of buttons on my phone (31, not including the receiver).
• Drank two large bottles of Diet Coke. Tried to figure out secret ingredients in Coke. Nearly blew up computer in attempt. Lost interest.
• Finished Crooked Little Vein, which is like love in book form.
• Read a manuscript.
• Sent increasingly panic-stricken text messages to my friend Esse, who is supposed to come over tonight, because the idea of being alone with my roommate fills me with fear. And urine.
• Spent roughly twenty minutes pondering the moral and ethical implications of spitting in my roommate’s shampoo. Decided against it, due to DNA testing.
• Spent roughly forty minutes trying to figure out how I could manage to lose TWO iPods, one of which is not mine, both of which are expected to be given to someone tomorrow.
• Wondered why the hell it’s called a Jitney.
• Pondered the sexuality of one of my coworkers.
• Discovered that in fact I have the only working E-Mail in the entire office, due to a glitch in the system, and because I forgot to turn it off last night. Decided against informing anyone.

Lunch was weird, too. I was with Kay, the Art Department intern, and Jay from upstairs. A random lady walked over to our table and sat near us. Kay was picking at her leftovers. The older lady – by no means homeless – asked if she could finish Kay’s food. And did. Never in my entire life have I seen that happen. It was essentially a What The Fuck moment.

What a thrilling life I do lead. Tomorrow I have a job interview, AND I’m going to the Hamptons to mooch off of my rich aunt’s beach house. Even though I hate the beach. I do, however, love getting away from the evil blonde baby-eater I live with. Or ostrich-fucker. She needs a new nickname. Any ideas?

May your E-Mail work all day, and may Tom Cruise stay away from your couch,
- LV

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An Open Letter To Warren Ellis That May Result In My Incarceration, Although I Sincerely Hope Not As That Would Ruin My Weekend Plans

Dear Mr. Ellis,

I just wrote a very long and excessively creepy blog entry to you. Then I decided that my awkward sarcasm may not translate particularly well over the internet, and that I don't want to go to jail for having a bad sense of humor. So.

You. Are. GOD. Or would be, if I were not a pagan atheist who makes up gods on the spot when cranky/amused, such as the Gods of Organs, or the God of People Farting In Elevators. But Crooked Little Vein is so good it might inspire me to start a religion based around the idea that you have amazing powers us mere mortals cannot comprehend. The fact that you also wrote Transmetropolitan simply confirms that you shall forever be immortalized in the Panthen Of Good Gods Of ElleVee's World. Or something.

So here's the deal: You keep writing. I will keep buying the things you write, and force everyone I know to buy Crooked Little Vein, including my octogenarian grandmother. And if reading it kills her, I will blame it on her inherent crankiness and bribe the police. So you will make money, and I will go to jail for lying to the police. And I will read your books in jail, in between knife fights and work-out sessions and doing laundry and trying not to get violated in the shower, which is apparently all that happens in jail, from what I've seen on Oz.

OK. I just wanted to say that your book is beautiful and funny and twisted and heartbreaking and honest and mesmerizing, and that I love every diseased word. It just came out much weirder and more unwholesome than I had intended.

In conclusion, Mr. Ellis, I love your work. You are a great writer, and I am happy to own this book. And the cover kicks ass. But I hope I never meet you, because I'll probably stutter and cry, and feel exceedingly uncomfortable about this very weird, caffeine-inspired entry.

I just reread this post, and nearly deleted it for a second time. But I really want to say something about this book, and this is as coherent as I can be after a long day at work, and hiding in my room from my psychotic roommate, who may be feasting on the broken souls of former American Idol contestants.

Crooked Little Vein is my favorite novel of the year. Hands down. And you, Mr. Ellis, have forever changed the way I look at Godzilla.

Love (from a safe, police-approved distance),
- LV

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Mexican Chain Restaurants Are Bad For Everybody And Destroying The Fabric Of Our Lives (Cotton)

OK, we are all going to protest Chipotle. I went on chipotlefan.com to see how many calories my food was - 782. Now that is a LOT of fucking calories. Like, an obscene number. Then I had a lemon slice from Starbucks with 500 calories, and I feel sick.

I don't normally do calorie-counting, but COME ON! That is DISGUSTING. OK, I accept responsibility for the lemon slice. I knew it wasn't going to be good for me (but five HUNDRED?! What the FUCK?), but I ordered chicken tacos, no chips, no guac, nada. All right, I DID get sour cream. But not NEARLY enough to warrant so many calories. I could DIE from this!

Add in my breakfast, and Elle is sitting (sickly) at 1,662 calories for the day. OK, problem shall be dealt with. I don't think I can eat anything else today, because my stomach is very very cross with the sudden influx of nasty food, and I took my medicine, so I can minimize the damage. But SERIOUSLY. It takes a lot to make me this annoyed. And this has done it. I feel like spewing.

It wasn't even good food. How depressing is that? And now I'm royally broke, when I said I wouldn't eat out anymore. Whatever. No dinner, because I feel like dying, and all will be well.

But seriously. Protest Chipotle. Or demand they display their nutrition info. When I asked, they laughed. In retrospect, that should have tipped me off.

Odd Thomas was a surprisingly wonderful book. Next is A Thousand Splendid Suns.

I'm going to stop writing - I feel really sick.

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OK, for some reason, when I post from work I can't have a title. Which is probably a sign from the Gods of Publishing or the Gods of Hiring ElleVee So She Doesn't Have To Sell Her Organs For Food Money. But I digress.

My roommate is evil. EVIL. I'm sorry, but I need a moment's rant. After a long day at work, I come home intending to watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force and hold back tears of exhaustion. Instead, we have the following conversation:

Her: What are you watching?
Me: Aqua Teen.
Her: Oh, that's too bad. I was going to hang out with you, but now I can't. I don't like that show.
Me: You could try to like it.
Her: I have. I'll be in my room.
Me: I can hang out in here when you're watching Sex and the City.
Her: But you like that show.
Me: I used to. Before you made me watch every episode over ten times.

Then she later accused me of causing her to waste two hours of her life playing Tetris while I watched TV.

Here'a an update on work:
* Distribute roughly 1,000 books throughout the office.
- DONE. I distributed Cool Daddy Rat, Hey Mr. Choo Choo, Christopher Counting, Uncle Bobby's Wedding, and Stand Tall, Abe Lincoln. My back hurts, and I dropped one hundred copies of Mr. Choo Choo on my foot, but hey, who's complaining?
* Check the contact information for over 600 independent bookstores.
- I'm on page two. There are thirty-six. I don't want to talk about it. Anyone up for buying independent bookstores and turning them into rest homes for stressed-out readers?
* Read 175-page manuscript and write reader's report.
- DONE. And it was really good, incidentally. I'm hoping the title will change, so I'll hold off on saying what it is. But seriously, I nearly cried at my desk. Probably while the mysterious Intern Hiring Person strolled by.
* Read and edit 251-page manuscript and write reader's report.
- That's next. No problem, right? It would be, if I knew who the hell had given my the manuscript. She didn't introduce herself. Just shoved a box of paper into my hands, told me she needed it by the end of the week, and ran off laughing evilly. She also set fire to my hair.
* Handle slush (need I say more?)
- We are ignoring the ever-growing slush pile. If I don't look at it, it's not there. Maybe I can ask the Lady With No Name But Many Manuscripts to burn it next time she stops by.
* Have meeting with president of imprint to discuss Dean Koontz project.
- Pushed back to next Monday. AND she's buying me a sandwich. I'm hoping it comes with 'You're Hired!' mayo, as opposed to 'You're Getting Escorted Off The Premises' mustard.
* Write flap copy for children's book (and edit it).
- DONE. And she liked it! At least enough that she didn't spit in my face, or cry.
* Attend meeting on OTHER manuscript to determine if it goes to publishers.
- Moved to tomorrow. I read the book. I have opinions. What else do they want from me? They already have my TEARS.
*ave ANOTHER meeting with president of imprint to determine whether or not to purchase entirely different manuscript, which I just finished commenting on.
- Hasn't been mentioned. We're going to put it with the slush, and pretend it never existed.

And that pretty much sums up Life in The City. I have two minutes before I can ran screaming out of the building. I'm going to the Strand Annex today, because I EARNED my money, and to Klatch, an amazing coffee shop in the Financial District. You all should go. Their quiche could bring around world peace. Unless you're lactose intolerant. We don't want YOUR kind.

May your day be cool and not-sweaty, and may the crazy serial killer decide you look like too much of a fighter to bother with.
- LV

Title: Do Not Wear Platform Shoes When Lifting Fifty-Pound Boxes Unless You Really Hate Your Ankles

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All Hail Spider Jerusalem, President of My Attack Ovaries

A Brief Look At ElleVee's Week:

• Distribute roughly 1,000 books throughout the office.
• Check the contact information for over 600 independent bookstores
• Read 175-page manuscript and write reader's report
• Read and edit 251-page manuscript and write reader's report
• Handle slush (need I say more?)
• Have meeting with president of imprint to discuss Dean Koontz project
• Write flap copy for children's book (and edit it)
• Attend meeting on OTHER manuscript to determine if it goes to publishers.
• Have ANOTHER meeting with president of imprint to determine whether or not to purchase entirely different manuscript, which I just finished commenting on.

People keep giving me manuscripts to read. Which is a nice change from reading slush (one being written by published or soon-to-be-published authors, the other being written by the same people who flash you on the subway). But it's a lot of pressure.

I have decided that this is punishment for last week. The Gods of Publishing saw me sitting at my desk, whining about slush, playing around on LibraryThing.com and Amazon.com, and judged me unworthy. I have sinned, and this is my penance. Stupid Gods of Publishing.

I'll keep you updated on these projects as they occur. All I can say so far is that nobody needs to worry about Barnes & Noble or Borders taking over the bookstore market. In fact, maybe they should buy a few more bookstores. CRUSH THE LITTLE GUY! CONFORM!

I can't decide if I should go to the Strand today or not. Because, you know, I have so much free time. So, so much free time.

In other news, Warren Ellis is now the God of My Brain. Hurrah to him, and may he be a benevolent god.

For some reason the evil 'Title' part of this page is not obeying me, so here is the title I intended for this post:

"All Hail Spider Jerusalem, President of My Attack Ovaries."

Yeah. Think about it. DID I JUST BLOW YOUR MIND?! Read Transmetropolitan, and all will make sense. In your ENTIRE LIFE. I need to go home.

EDIT: Now the title is where it belongs. The world is where it should be. Sort of.

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My Desk Is Very Messy, And Will Probably Be The Reason I Do Not Get Hired Full-Time

Dear Would-Be Writers,
Please stop sending me your submissions. They are making me angry and twitchy. WHY CAN NOBODY SPELL? I have a theory it’s all the same, demented person with hundreds of different personalities, sending me increasingly crappy stories. Send your stories to other publishers. Just for a few days. I need a break. OR AT LEAST CHECK YOUR SPELLING DEAR LORD THE SPELLING!
Love and Kisses, ElleVee

There’s been a lot of slush today, none of it good. Paying somebody to publish your book does not mean you are a good writer – it means you have enough money to publish a book. THAT. IS. IT.

The Fourth was boring, because I was too lazy to do anything. I slept in, which I enjoyed, then spent most of the day sitting on the roof in the cold, cloudy weather reading A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby, which was great. Probably my favorite of his books.

Then I watched Notes On A Scandal with my crazy roommate, who didn’t ‘get’ the movie. I made egg in a basket (the only thing I can actually cook that will not kill me or make me throw up), and went to bed early.

Tonight I’m meeting up with my old journalism class in Union Square for food and drinking.

It’s a slow day. Can you tell?

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Amy Winehouse Is Awesome And Should Be My Friend

Things I Am Really Worried About

• That I will not be offered a job at the end of my internship, despite all my hard work, and will have to go work at Abercrombie & Fitch.
• That a very famous author will laugh at my book proposal. Then beat me unconscious with a copy of Phantoms.
• That when the zombie uprising comes, I will panic and aim for their feet.
• That my roommate will lose control of her bloodlust and feast upon my sweet, sweet flesh.
• That my apartment situation will crash and burn in a fiery ball of whining and insanity, and I will be forced to live in a house constructed entirely out of books and DVDs. Or worse, in New Jersey.
• That the release date for Will Christopher Baer’s book will be pushed back, reducing me to a hollow shell of the human condition.
• That my uncle will not recover from liver cancer.
• That the Transformers movie will be as bad as I think it will.
• Clowns.

That’s all for now. Back to work. May your day be pleasant, and may the zombie clowns get lost on the way to your home. Unless you like zombie clowns, in which case may they swarm upon you and hold a kick-ass party.

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