That’s an odd title for a book, right? But I’m a little proud of it, even though it’s not my book, because, you see, it’s my title. While venting to friends about some relationship problems I’ve been having (best not to delve into those—after all, the book isn’t titled Susan Is Co-Dependent, Desperate for Love, and Dangerously Close to Becoming an Alcoholic), I shouted “MOTHERF*#%ER!” at the top of my lungs in an attempt to exorcise my anger. My waifish friend Leah, easily offended by profanity, was disturbed by my Oedipal curse. Still upset from my lunchtime encounter, which included tears, shouting, and the hurried walk past of an attractive man I’d been aiming to place my newly single hopes on (which I suppose isn’t going to happen now because he thinks I’m crazy at the outset rather than finding it out gradually over months of late-night phone calls, obsessive questioning, and drunken apologies—he’d have stuck around because the sex would’ve been awesome, in case you’re wondering), I barked, “I’m sorry, I forgot: Leah is a delicate f*#%ing flower!”

Now, I’m sure many people would call me a prick and/or simply leave when that sort of comment was screamed at them without provocation. But my friends are used to my tirades and normally forgive them or tune them out. Or maybe they have some sort of masochistic psychosis that makes them seek out ass wipes like me. At any rate, Leah merely laughed and said, “That should be the title of my book.” Great, and I’ll write the foreword. Um, what book are we talking about exactly?

Being asked to write a foreword for a book that hasn’t been written is a tad tricky. What’s the book going to be about? Is it fiction? Nonfiction? A gardening book with beautiful yet dull pictures? A sci-fi fantasy-type deal about a girl who is transformed into a flower that wilts under the weight of the rain? It would be nice to know. Then I might have a clue as to the direction this foreword should take. But no, I know nothing about this book except that it hasn’t been written. And it’s not like I can ask the supposed author. No. She’s too sensitive. She’s too much of an artiste. She’s too busy to answer questions about her own book. She doesn’t like it when her friends vent their frustration from needy, guilt-infused lunches by cursing the emotionally retarded, passive-aggressive f*#%wit and his clingy mother. MOTHERF*#%ER! Screw this foreword! At least the title of the book is right (like it’ll ever get written)—Leah is a delicate f*#%ing flower!