This morning Summer was wrapped in a big comforter on the floor – she had fallen asleep during marathon late-night movies. Shane thought the beanbag looked comfy and so we ended up with  BUTTHEAD to BUTT:

Der Bingle drove up last night from the Ohio Redoubt and at a rest stop talked with Quentin thanks to Sprint . . . and they spoke about, according to Quentin, “The Wrath of Mom”.  I guess, when I spoke with him the night before,  I had made an impression on my son by launching into a litany of  grousing remarks about some circumstances – see, I am being circumspect here, but only for that one instance.

Now, I again am open and specific: I talked about becoming a serial killer and I quoted indignant remarks made to other people as I talked with him. It was sort of a a verbal St. Valentine’s Massacre redux. Maybe like an audiobook with the words read with passion; I imagine he was glad we were not video-chatting and so I could not re-enact my arm waving,  scowling faces and authentic AmeliaJake  putting on the Hex curses.

That conversation was Thursday night and last night, after he had warned his dad, we talked again and the conversation wound its way to whether or not my attorney should put me on the stand. At first, Quentin was of the opinion that he should not, believing I would erupt like Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men” and that would be disastrous. On the other hand, Q then thought that might not be bad and my attorney could use my crazy time on the stand to bolster an insanity plea. But then I would be Jack Nicholson in “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

So we don’t know.

I sense I should end this post now. Rose certainly has her work cut out for her.