Debbie Does Drivel

I'M A READER, NOT A FIGHTER!

I'm at a book club meeting, for crap's sake! I don't expect large-scale drama. I expect thoughful, if at times spirited, conversation. But you don't read the book! So your conversation centers not on theme and who would play Tepper in the movie. No! lo it's how you love anal sex and always expect guys to pick up the check.
See, you are superficial! And yes, petty! You add nothing to the conversation until we all are drunk and want to talk about your newest vibrator and how you hired an efficiency expert to organize your closet.
And stop stepping on my toes!
I started the damn ass book club and if I unwittingly call myself the president, do not snidely say, "Oh? When were you elected?"
I shouldn't grace that fuckwitted question with an answer, but I will.
I was elected when I put the club together four years ago. When I've missed two, just two meetings in all that time. When I send out EVERY SINGLE e-mail announcing the book schedule and meeting minutes. When I bring discussion questions for the book you picked because you are too uninspired to do it yourself. When I keep the meetings going for the people who actually read the thing and want to speak to it intelligently, but who cannot hear over your witless chatter about your Victoria's Secret bulk order.
And yes I heard you when you mentioned the mass e-mail you sent out inviting everyone I know to a party. When I played right into your hands and asked about it, you say: "Oh, it's geared for singles. I didn't invite any of my married friends."
I suppose then that inviting our engaged-to-be-married-in one-month friend is open game?
Ick! I don't like you! Don't come around here no more!
And stop making me feel like a dork de la dork dork just because I want to have a real book club -- one in which we talk about books -- and not about your dipshit, slack-jawed, brain-dead, vanilla-smeared, cerebral-cortex-numbing, prose-less, unmelodic, chalkboard-scratching DRIVEL!
You're hurting my feelings.