Bee-loved.

{I Know I Am, But What Are You? by Samantha Bee}

Have you read this book yet?    I Know I Am, But What Are You?

Buy it. Now. And read it, you'll laugh your ass off.

Here is an excerpt, as posted online: 

looking a gift horse in the mouth

Now, my father knows how to accept a gift. He knows how to accept one mainly because he wrote his wish list in blood on the dining room wall and has been practicing his acceptance speech ever since. It doesn’t really bother me, except that every year the gifts keep getting more and more expensive. It makes me feel weird that my own father asks me for stuff he would never have contemplated getting for me while I was growing up. The man who once gave me a budget of $13 a week for groceries in college—that’s $52 a month for food—is now asking me for things like laptop computers and Gucci loafers. One year, I got him an iPod, which he loved and was moved by. I wasn’t making so much money that it was an inconsequential expense, but I could afford it with a little stretching. I knew it would mean a lot to him. Two months later, the whole transaction was forgotten. It was all, “This iPod stinks. It only has six hours of battery life! I hate it.”

I was like, “Six hours? Who can listen to that much Bruce Hornsby in a single day anyway? I mean, maybe if the Range was still in the picture . . . but a solo effort? Don’t you need to give your ears time to stop bleeding before you firethat bad boy up again?” “Bite me. It’s a lot better than the Smiths, so get over yourself.” He always liked to remind me that I went through a very serious love affair with the music of the Smiths and that he thought it was terrible and depressing. I liked to remind him that Billy Joel was a much more interesting songwriter when he was suffering from depression and doing things like drinking furniture polish, not making songs like “Uptown Girl,” which was, coincidentally, my father’s favorite.

I laughed out loud in a melodious honk on a number of occasions, surely looking ultra-attractive to dear Mark. Almost as good as when I was ogling John Stamos on Glee the other night. Have Mercy!

But that's neither here nor there.

Read this and come back here and let me know what you think!