Thanks to Kate and Andy, my former obsession with Twin Peaks has been rekindled. The two of them have been discussing the infamous Lynch production on their websites recently, and it’s made me want to go ahead and dig out my Diary of Laura Palmer (thrift store, last year, $1, thankyouverymuch). In eighth grade, my best friend Donna and I would rehash the previous night’s second-season episode once a week in the morning over bagels at the Science Service Squad meeting. (Okay, my cover is blown: I did, in fact, belong to a BEFORE school club whose main purpose it was to prepare the science laboratories for class later that day. Let’s move on now.) We took notes, we purchased merchandise, we toiled, frustrated 13-year-olds, believing that we were this close to getting it. Later, during my junior year of college, a few of us holed ourselved up over Spring break to watch the taped episodes one after another on a tiny television in a pitch-dark dorm room at the edge of the woods. We clutched at each other — without drinks — and squealed as each paper letter was tweezed from under Laura’s fingernails. I hid my eyes and covered my ears, scared stupid by the sound of that ceiling fan in the Palmer house, the ceiling fan turning — and it could only mean that Bob was nearby, at the foot of Laura’s bed. Perhaps something was at the foot of my bed, too?

How, how, how can I possibly own the DVD of the first season when I am struggling merely to pay my rent? The question begs to be answered. I offer up my willingness to work for next-to-nothing!