hmph.

I'm pouting. The man is packing for Vegas right now. He'll be gone 'til Sunday. Whatev'. I'm jealous and bratty and sexually deprived right now. I knew I'd hate it today. I don't want him to go. Selfish me.

He better behave. My pessimistic nature is nagging at me. I make up ugly scenarios.

So I'm going to watch Love Actually, eat leftover birthday cake, maybe smoke up, and sleep alone. (It's interesting how quickly one gets used to being part of a couple.)

Mmmm cow meat and french fries. (Another gift to myself for having to spend my weekend solo.)

What a fucking baby I am. Ha.

I could go hit the scene tonight or tomorrow night. I don't wanna. I'd rather hibernate in Sanger. It'll be nice to have a house all to myself, really. I can lounge in my briefs, eh? Maybe I'll take pictures and send them to everyone online. Because, you know, that's what I do.

So, then. That's the guy who is going to get the ax from Lost? The one who fell in the plane? I'm a new fan. Somebody dish and elevate me to devout.
And the light. Aliens?
Yeah, hook me up with the Lost info.