Today, which is a Monday, indistinguishable from other Mondays in its promise of malaise and low-grade weekend hangovers, would have been the perfect day to stay in bed. That was my first thought upon waking to the irritating sound of my alarm clock, where I teetered on the brink of calling-in-sickness. At some point during the night, rain had fallen, and I'd stirred, smiling pleasantly (but not excessively, which causes premature wrinkling) and nestling down securely in the radiant warmth of my Zapmaster 3000 electric blanket. Top-of-the-line, the Z3000. Uncle
Zachary sent it to me last Christmas, with a typewritten note expressing a heartfelt wish that I not freeze my little ass off, as he put it. Dear Uncle Zachary. When I poison him for the insurance money, I'll make sure his coffin is lined with sable.

But back to me: I nestled into my blankets, hair strewn elegantly across my new ice- blue sheets, they are so flattering. I'm not a thread-count whore like some people I could name, but take a guess how many threads per inch these babies have? You are not even close. I don't even care what you guessed, you are wrong, because these sheets, these brand-new ice-blue sheets that exactly match the sparkle in my eyes, boast no less than 2,000,000 threads per inch. They are less fabric than water--to slip between them is to dive into some rich beverage, like Kahlua, although that seems a little low-rent. Like Bailey's Irish Cream, only better. More expensive. Everything I have is expensive. I am expensive.

You might wonder, fascinated as you are by every detail about me, how it is that I recall my night-time smiling and nestling, and I will tell you: I have a series of cameras installed about the room. They watch my every move and record it on a series of indestructible DVDs, which are, once viewed, sent to a vault in Zenobia. Or Zambia. It is a place very far away, and that is where these tapes of me, Violet, are sent and kept, and studied by experts who work nonstop in relay teams to perfect a robot in my exact likeness. The Violet 3000. You will not be able to afford one, but you can dream, can't you? No! As it turns out, you cannot. The very THOUGHT "Violet 3000" is copyrighted, and if you even think the words, a flotilla of Dream Lawyers will invade your brain and charge $1700 to your MasterCard account.

It is not easy being me, as you can likely discern, which is why today, a Monday like any other day, I thought it would be ideal to stay in bed, reading Heavy Metal magazine and snorting heroin from the buttocks of the boy who brings in my mail.

But instead, I soldiered on. It is my duty, and I rise to the charge.

Star of the day. . .Evita Peron