I want you all to know that I did NOT watch Mr. Personality. I mean, I caught the first episode, but only because it followed a special Monday night episode of American Idol. And I was tired that night, and had nothing better to do, so I just sat there, letting the Monica-Lewinski-as-a-silly-duenna nonsense fill my mind, instead of reading life-improving books by Susan Faludi like I should have been doing.
That being said, yesterday Fox aired a special Monday night episode of American Idol. And because I was tired and coming off of a long weekend and very quickly dismissed the notion of reading a life-improving book as an alternative, I continued to sit in the blue and white glow of the flat screen for the final episode of Mr. Personality.
And, can I just tell you? It was the ultimate Good Guy vs. Bad Guy romance-off, because as dashing and intelligent as Chris was, he was totally an evil, mind-controlling Lothario. Plus, that whole "Hayley, I love you" thing that Will did nearly killed me. Really, I'm on placebo week here, people! My hormones are all nutty! I can't be watching stuff like that! Are they TRYING to make me cry? Oh, he was so obviously the good guy in the mix. Plus, how lucky is she? She decides to marry for love, and then finds out that he's a bloody millionaire! Hello! Horseshoe, anyone? More than that though, it was the whole 'true love' thing that got me. The way they looked at each other at the end, when the mask came off, and they were so blissfully aware that they had each found the right one, and... Oh God. It was so lovely. It's destined to fail, of course, but I really have to think hard to remember that part.
I really have to start falling in love again. I'm quite out of practice.
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So, the battered wife thing I mentioned yesterday. Ok, remember the The Kidney Ordeal I went through last week? The Doctor of Pain and Waiting prescribed me some meds, and I suspect that it is those self-same anti-biotics that have contributed to the Burning Bed look I'm currently sporting. It looks like an allergic reaction has made the ever so tender and delicate, wrinkle-free skin around my eyes itchy and swollen and scabby and dry and slightly crusty and red and inflamed and generally gross. And if you think I look bad, you should see the other guy! Anyway, the kicker is this. Saturday and Sunday were horrible, but by Sunday night, I seemed to get it under control with Polysporin. By Monday night, I looked 400% better, and pretty much healed. Then this morning, I woke up to find that that dream I'd had about a Rumble in the Jungle with Mr.Ali seems to have come to life on my face, and I was the unfortunate victim of a few K.O.s too many. I'm going to the doctor tonight, where I'm sure she'll prescribe something that's meant to put me in hospital.
So. Let me get this straight. This silly month of May, which is two thirds of the way over, was supposed to have been my month d'amour. I haven't found my own Mr.Personality yet, but instead, have been blessed with a kidney full of toxin and pain; a cold sore that over-stayed it's welcome by two weeks and only just went away about five minutes ago; and a pair of peepers that - if they really are the windows to the soul - would send the Devil himself running in the other direction. Plus, I think I'm getting fat again, so Iíve had to kick Operation: Mini-Skirt back into gear.
But, I've got a birthday in 11 days. That's a good thing, right? Right?
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