Home. Where the kitties are. Today was a day off from work. I spent it lunching with a friend and visiting with my parents. ————————–aRFGHAHA
Do. Not. Want. To. Write.
My brain is fried and all I want to do is to spend my time drooling into space. And I don’t mean spacey space, with the stars and the moon and the nebulas and the swirls and the possible alien incursions. I mean space like the white, white wall, or my unfocused gaze toward the television, or my favorite: gazing into my hair over the front of my face, like Cousin It.
I was going to cheat and do a video blog tonight, but I didn’t think that 2 minutes of unfocused gazing whilst drooling would not win me any new fans. So I abstained. Yay me.
I need some pleather pants. With Lycra. And Spandex. And a couple of people to help me put them on.
I need my own makeup artist. Who has some shellac.
Observation: Cold Case is a depressing show. And it doesn’t have any hot dudes to make up for it, like Criminal Minds does. And I swear the lead chick is a vampire woman. So pale. So very pale. Cold and pale. Like a cold case, even. And by the way, how in the hell does a show get away with not having any hot dudes? I suppose there is one passably handsome dude, but he’s no Shemar Moore.
That is all.
