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Please, No Autographs, and No Flash Photography

Yes, it’s another rock star Sunday here at Chez Charlie.

Up at ten, took a shower. Noshed on a luxurious lunch of a microwaved frozen dinner and a packet of peanut butter crackers. For the last two hours, I’ve been flipping channels back and forth between a blowout baseball game and a really bad Damon Wayans movie.

(Which would be fully redundant, if not for I’m Gonna Git You, Sucka and possibly The Last Boy Scout. But only if I’m feeling generous.)

Meanwhile, I’m decked out in sweatpants and a T-shirt, because I’m working my way through fourteen loads of laundry. That hardly counts as ‘dressed to the nines’, I’m afraid. It’s not even dressed to the eights, or the sevens. I’m dressed to the threes, at best. Bitches.

Now, I know what you’re all thinking, and I just want to say: jealousy is so ugly in you. Just let me have my glamorous Hollywood life and be happy for me, would you? I worked for this, dammit. And if you put in enough time and sweat, and buy some fabric detergent of your own, then maybe one day, you can have Sundays like mine, too. How’s that for something to look forward to?

That’s all for now, folks. For some reason, now I just feel like having a good cry. We celebrities can be so moody, can’t we? Ta.