"He'll sit there and go, Dipsy... Po... Dipsy... Po. I honestly don't think he knows colors. Just Teletubbies."


I Can't Write Letters for Beans. Truly.

I'm writing a letter to Emma Thompson. Or trying to. I'm explaining that I mean to harm by my adaptation of her writing, and that I'd write a letter to Jane Austen, also, if Jane Austen wasn't so dead. In case you couldn't tell by the last sentence, it isn't going very well. Here's what I've got so far:

"Dear Emma Thompson,
I am adapting a play of Sense and Sensibilty using your script. I mean to harm to you or Jane Austen. I'm doing a bad job and I'm really really sorry."

As you can see, I've written myself into a dead end. Perhaps I should write the last sentence out.

And, for a different Emma: The midgets are coming.


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