I'm a sinner. Alright? I admit it.
But I do have an excuse. Two excuses, actually.
A. I worked through my lunch, and could spare not even a moment for hard-fought wit and barely-there charm and my own special brand of vacuous fluff. There was thinking to be done, poppets! Thinking! Imagine! On a Monday, even!
B. I had a migraine that turned into a veritable barf-o-rama last night. Seriously, it was like that scene in Stand By My, at that pie eating contest, with the barfing and the milk of magnesia and the Benevolent Society Ladies upchuck all over the Royal Charter of Moose, or whatever they were called. You know, those guys with the fezes. Right. Them.
The headache actually started during Six Feet Under, and Lord love a duck, that show is incredible! See, I'm one of those poor schmucks that doesn't get the super specialty channels, and must therefore wait until some station takes mercy on my soul and gives me some TV-lovin' for free. Thus, last night? Like, what, three or four years after everyone has seen it? I saw the pilot of 6FU.
It's dead awesome, that one.
I've a weekend of activity to share with you, but it'll have to wait. Yet again, your Mare has not the strength or will to deliver a decent entry. And that's sad, you know? Because it's my diary, isn't it? It's my site. They're my words. They're supposed to be for me, aren't they?
I really hope JournalCon has a panel on this.
More later, poppets.
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