I'm leaving to pursue Gwyneth Paltrow.
I feel that, with the proper amount of time on my hands and a good enough plan, I have a fair shot at getting the opportunity to talk to her, at any rate, and we all know how it goes once you've gotten them to talk to you, or, as in this case, realise you exist.
So while I'll just be sitting around the house for the first few weeks or so, I plan on gauging just how much time I will have on my hands for alternative pursuits.
Once that's done I plan on getting groceries, as I imagine that I'll be pretty hungry by that time, 'll try to stock up on some healthy stuff, too, because I'm always getting it because I don't eat healthy enough.
Anyway, so I've established my solid base of what it is exactly that I'm dealing with.
And, sort of looking into the future and trying to guess my findings, I think I may find that the afternoons are very brown, sitting with all that time.
Brown with a sort of yellowish tinge. Except for where the curtains hang over the windows, those bits will most likely be reddish.
But that's all just pure conjecture at this point, as if I could tell for sure there'd be no sense in spending all that time when I knew I was just going to come away knowing it was brown, tinged with yellow, save the drapery.
I figure I'm also going to need a good line to get her attention, as, from my understanding, Ms. Paltrow is a busy woman, and she doesn't necessarily have time for someone like myself, who just might not make the best first impression, but would surely grow on her (no, not literally, of course not) as she got to know me better than stubbing my toe on her dog or something equally embarrasing.
If I'm wrong, and she's a terribly bored woman, well, then, I'll just have to fire my chief researcher.
"Hello, I'm hopelessly enamoured," I've found, most often comes out, in my fevered mind, as "Erm...," despite the obvious dissimilarities in number of syllables and phonetics. I've tried taping the instances in which this has happened, and it never fails, it seems, though Teri Hatcher was kind enough to offer me a "Go on..." when I'd put the statement to herself.
I think, however, she was telling me to be off, and not suggesting I try to gather my thoughts and sort out just where I was going wrong.
Alas, we went our separate ways, and, allowing proper recovery time, I honestly believe Ms. Paltrow and myself to be wonderfully similar.
So I'm taking a year sabbatical.
Now I just have to randomly bump into her on the street.
disclaimer:
The following issue is a paid advert for Jameson, and lots of it.
It also has absolutely nothing to do with that whole incident last week in the papers about the mad goldfish epidemic striking the coast.
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. the end of one thing, not this.