Someone just coughed luxuriously out in the hallway. She really took her time with it. And then, at the end, she added a little "ack!" for good measure. It was pure symphony.
I've eaten at least one hundred and thirty-three chocolate covered almonds because a) I'm alone in the office (shock!), and b) I keep realizing that I shouldn't eat them all because my bosses will come back and find out and look at me disgustedly, and the sheer horror of that fact drives me back, again and again, to their threes and fours melting in my mouth. So now I'm completely cracked out on sugar and trying to write a story, the effect of which has caused me to name my lead character Maltzarella. Well, Maltzie, actually. She's just been reunited with her father, Bill. Compelling, isn't it?
Cold Case Files: the answer to so many of my prayers.
I just read a short story by 2004's Pulitzer Prize winner for Fiction, Edward P. Jones, in the New Yorker, and have come to the conclusion that all the writing I've done up to now is pure insult to writers like him. See for yourself.
Slobberbone is breaking up. In other news, Ashlee Simpson has a new video, thereby defeating my hypothesis that it was simply impossible for her to get any creepier. Or (snort) beakier.
For the past five minutes, I've been screaming at the bf on the phone. His reaction: nothing. He's now informing me of neat bars to go to in Austin.