I watched The West Wing last night, overly distraught that is was a re-run, and my beloved Joshua Malina was not to be seen.
I am, as you can see, in the throes of being 12.
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Funny. When I was heavier... er... chunkier... er... alright, when I was FAT... I knew that there was no way that any but the rarest kind of gentleman would ever fall in love with me. Now I'm thinner, and I find myself ridiculously angry that the right - because there will be many, but only one correct - guy who's supposed to fall in love with me hasn't shown up yet. Hello! Time's a ticking, my love...
Right. I know. I did own up to being ridiculous, though.
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Around the world tonight, women will die because of political climate, because of poverty, because of mulish and ignorant men. That fact is disturbing enough, but what's more so is the fact that the only thing I feel like doing about it is going out to dance and whirl and sparkle, in celebration of the fact that I'm not one of them.
My self-awareness often clashes with my idealism.
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Toodle-pip, my beauties.
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