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funds, press two . . .” How about, “If I want to kill you, I’ll press your head under water for six minutes”? I hate this automated shit. If I ever did get the urge to talk to a machine I’d say “thank you” to my vibrator.
    MARCH 5
    Dear Diary:
    Today is Multiple Personality Day and we’re both so happy! Ever since Sybil I’ve been fascinated by people with multiple personality disorder. One minute you’re talking to Janice from Roslyn Heights, and the next minute it’s Cressida, ancient goddess of ground transportation. A couple of years ago my friend, the comedian Roseanne, announced that she had twenty-six different personalities. I was shocked. You’d think at least one of them would’ve gone on a diet.
    I don’t believe in multiple personalities; I think it’s just a good way of not paying your bills. “Joan-Thrifty” would never wear $1,500 shoes. “Here, they’re only a little worn, take ’em back.” Yes, “Joan-Whore” slept with all those men, but “Joan-Good” would never go down on a fleet; it might bend her braces and would jeopardize her marriage to that withered, rich old man. “Joan–Child Abuse” might have taken down the horrible boy next door who continually tipped over her garbage, but “Joan-Nice” would have called the boy’s parents and asked them to speak to their pastor, prior to punching little Johnny in the face, breaking his arm and leaving him sightless. (Children need to be taught boundaries.)
    MARCH 6
    Dear Diary:
    I’m tired of dealing with crazies. When did it become my job to manage your mental illness? You wanna be nuts, be nuts. Go put a pencil in your mouth and bark at the fire hydrants, but leave me the fuck out of it.
    I was leaving Citarella (where I buy day-old fish to donate to orphanages for children with clogged nasal passages) and some wacko starts following me, saying, “Jesus loves you, Jesus loves you.” I said, “Look! It was just a summer thing. We were young, we were crazy, we got drunk and took a house on the Cape. Now leave me alone!”
    And speaking of Christian love, I am so sick of those stupid ads for Christian singles. The ads always have some homely girl saying, “Jesus wants me to get married.” I doubt this. If Jesus wanted her to get married, he would have given her a chin. I have news for you, Gloria Jean: Jesus wants you single and teaching special ed.
    MARCH 7
    Dear Diary:
    Went to see Diana Ross in concert last night. Nine songs, a thousand costume changes and two hours of “Reach out, hold hands; sing with me, sing with me audience, sing with me . . .” Fuck off! For two hundred bucks a ticket, I’m not singing; you sing, you skinny bitch. How did the singing suddenly become my job? When I’m in Vegas, I don’t make my audience hold hands and tell the jokes. My proctologist doesn’t ask me to put my fingers up his ass.
    After her show I started to go backstage to meet Diana but I just couldn’t. The thought of calling anyone other than Michael Jackson “Miss Ross” depresses me so much. It’s been several years and I still miss my Michael. He was such a help with my grandson, Cooper. Now that he’s gone I have no one to call and tell me how to sweet-talk a young boy into doing almost anything.
    Anyway, back to Big D. I remember a night way back in the ’80s when Diana Ross gave a free concert in Central Park in New York. There were 200,000 people there, including me, and five minutes into the show a hurricane hit. Howling winds, driving rain—there was so much flooding it looked like Adele must’ve jumped into a swimming pool. People, dogs, benches were swirling by, and Diana’s standing there onstage, saying, “I’ll save you, I’ll save you . . .” Save us? Who the fuck did she think she was, the Pope? She couldn’t even save Florence Ballard, and she was a Supreme. *
    MARCH 8
    Dear Diary:
    Picked up Melissa at yoga class. They were doing the Downward-Facing Dog, but when I walked in they