|Product dimensions:||5.20(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.90(d)|
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Telephone Call to My Mother
It started several months ago when I called my mother with the good news.
"Mom, I'm thinking about writing a book."
"Really? What are you going to write about?"
"Me and my wonderful life."
"That's a great idea. You can write about all the people you met and how you used to go to the set with your father and about the time they put the ears on you."
"Mom, I'm not going to write about that."
"What? Why not?"
"Because nobody wants to hear about that crap. I'm going to write about the dark times, about the times when I was down and out, about the times when I could barely survive, like when you and Dad were out of town on some Star Trek press junket and I was strung out on the floor of that men's room downtown, when I almost OD'd and was passed out in my own vomit in that stinking men's room with the toilets overflooded and shit everywhere and the glaring lights and the bums and the flies and me on the floor passed out with a needle in my arm." My mother's about to have a heart attack over the phone.
"Tha...that...that never happened to you!"
"No, Ma, I know. But that's what people want to hear."
Copyright © 2008 by Adam Nimoy