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09.19.2002 - 10:42 a.m.


I'm playing hooky today, having decided to indulge my desire to sloth about the house bemoaning my puffy, cramp-laden state of affairs. I have a weird pad called a ThermaSomething plastered to my abdomen, delivering unnatural heat by some hidden voodoo. I wish I could tell you I was swathed in a silky gown, wearing a fragile, porcelain complexion, perhaps sipping some fortifying thing like sherry, but alas. In reality I have unwashed hair, am clad in a giant OSU Beaver t-shirt, and I'm mainlining coffee from a chipped plastic mug.

There's no romance in The Curse these days. Hot water bottles and steaming drinks of tea laced with brandy are just no more, are they? Who's got time for that, when you can chomp a Midol, slap on a ThermaWhatever, and get on with life? That's why you have to play hooky every now and then, girls. Pamper yourself a little. I am Woman, hear me retain water!

Although, Workplace would probably be a more soothing environment today. Dog is driving me completely batshit.

"Hey! Hey! You're up! Right own! So hey! You feel like some Frisbee? Seriously, you want to toss it around a little? Go out there on the lawn, you know, huck it a few times? No? You want coffee first? Well, ok man, I can wait. Just, well, I was really hoping you wanted to play NOW, but that's cool, that's cool. I can chill for a - hey! Hey! Where are you going? Are you going for the DOOR? ARE WE GOING TO PLAY NOW? Ohmigodohmigodohmigod RAD!!!! I - oh, sorry about that plant. You - what? You're just getting the paper? Fuck you, man."

You know what I'd really like to be doing right now? Watching Monsters Inc. While eating a Rice Krispie bar. Under an electric blanket. One without a mound of animal fur stuck to it. Of course, three of those things would cause me to have to go to a store, and the fourth would require that I buy a new house, so I think I'll just sit here.


So I had this totally erotic dream last night. No kidding, a seriously sweaty dream. It featured - god this is embarrassing - Hugh Grant. Someone who has never, ever appealed to me. I mean, Nicolas Cage, Ed Harris, Josh Hartnett, The Pitt, hell, even Toby Maguire with his barely-legal ass - those guys I can picture starring in my own personal XXX production. But Hugh Grant? With the floppy hair and the teeth and all?

Oh, it gets weirder. All I can really remember is Hugh pressing me against this sofa, we're both fully clothed, and he's whispering how he accessed my library records, and he knows everything I've ever checked out, and how he's totally turned on by my choice in books.

And I woke up in this like sex fever. Lord.

I have no idea what it means. My current library roster includes an R. Crumb collection, some boring thing called Aveda Rituals which is a bunch of blather about aromatherapy, a Terry McMillan novel, and a crafts book called Gifts From Nature - or, I should stop, right? I mean, I don't want to get you too hot and bothered.

0 comments so far.

I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004

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