August 17th, 2003



I have spent far too long fiddling with my new list of interests in a dissatisfied way. I stare at it and stare at it, and remove one thing and add another, stare some more, decide it doesn't reflect me at all, give up and watch TV for a while, come back and stare some more, etc.

Pamela Ribon is funnier than me. Far, far more funny. Bitch.

It's four o'fucking clock in the morning. My eyeballs feel shaved.

Jolene Blalock must live! Live, I say!

Belatedly, I feel rather bad about condemning JB so callously to her mortal fate. I mean, what if someone posted in my view, "James Marsters must die!" I'd be pretty pissed off. And honestly, the main problem with "Birthright" was the writing. There's really not much that can be done with writing like that.

I was dwelling on this in my unconscious state, it seems, when my pager woke me up for the second !@#$%!!! time after 4 hours of sleep just now.

Enterprise is another matter entirely, of course. All the episodes I saw sucked. I can blame that on the writing, too, though I wasn't really impressed with JB's T'Pol either. (T'Pol? I'm not going to look that up. My eyes are swathed in grit.)

Must update database. Then go back to bed, accompanied by wacky BtVS AU dreams.

oh, please.

There is nothing I hate more than a movie with a foregone conculsion established from scene one--a conclusion that's obvious from the *trailers* for god's sake. "Sweet Home Alabama" is a terrifically craptastic movie. What is the point of movies like this? Was there ever a second's doubt that she'd end up with her first husband, the strangely David-Arquette-like embodiment of everything Southern and good-old-boy, blah blah blah? Instead of the INSANELY handsome and adorable and sweet, not to mention rich Patrick Dempsey? Because of course, who would *ever* really want to leave behind a crappy past and live in New York City and have a Tiffany diamond the size of a golf ball on your finger and be a huge glitzy success with amusing British friends, when instead you could hang out in skeezy smoky bars and county fairs and drink beer and slap the mosquitoes off your ass and get predictably pregnant? And this whole deal with how her imaginary upbringing was a fantasy? No, dear. The "reality" was the fantasy, where your good old boy has an entrepreneurial, artistic secret heart and has been slaving away to win you back for seven years, where everyone rallies around your princessy self instead of resenting you for being a successful bitch, where the nice gay boy is accepted and not hung up on a fence, and where they all live happily ever after, making babies and jam.

Stupid fucking movie. And Melanie was totally bitchslap-worthy.

I will die happy if I never see another movie where the bride makes it to the altar with the "wrong man" and then realizes suddenly that she loves someone else, and so of course let's just stop the marriage. Or vice versa. I'm so sick of it. Sick sick sick!

That is two hours of my life that I'll never get back, but at least I got some clothes ironed and made cookies. Multi-tasking saves me from feeling totally gypped of sweet, sweet life.