Saturday: Bloggy Breakfast Burrito
• Ugh. I awakened with a stomach ache. Must have been the soybeans. Or the Healthy Choice sugarless ice cream I accidentally ate at 2 a.m. to console myself after the horrid Lakers beat my angelic Spurs. Ow.
• My recent ex/back again girlfriend came by yesterday. It was very nice to see her. We have decided to start seeing each other again on very limited terms. Maybe once a week, maybe less often. No expectations, no commitments, no heavy drama. Heyyy, I hear some lesbian chuckling out there. Oh well, we'll just have to see how it goes.
• I've been tempted to do a postwar recap but I am so disgusted I wouldn't know where to start. We spend billions to go after bad guys and never seem to get them.
For all we know, Bin Laden and Saddam are in a safehouse somewhere, divvying up the billions in American currency Saddam ratholed and planning something that'll make 9/11 look like a liquor store stickup. I have zero faith in the resident's ability to protect us, and full confidence in his ability to alienate us from every ally we've ever counted on.
Barcodie tells me I am "full of shit" regarding my thoughts about Dubya, then he referred me to some Blogger so I can become enlightened. Again, I do not consider other Bloggers to be the final word on world affairs. That he does says more about him than it does me.
Still, a tolerant liberal should allow for dissent. It often serves to illustrate my points far better than I can. :)
• On Sunday, Melly and I are getting together at Chez Zipdrive for the finale of Survivor. She's a lot of fun and great with the side comments. I hope our mutual disdain for Jenna and Rob doesn't explode the TV.
• I have hundreds of dollars worth of bookstore gift certificates to cash in, but I am postponing it so I don't come home with a bunch of sappy "healthy relationship" books instead of some good old fashioned escape reading. Methinks sometimes the best medicine for maintaining healthy relationships is to not think about them.
• James my cat needs a kitty psychotherapist. Last night at 3, he decided he wanted to have a conversation with me. Usually a quick swipe of my arm moves him onto the floor and he gets the hint. Not last night. When I say a conversation, I mean full blast, plaintive meows that remind me of Lassie telling Timmy someone's fallen down the well.
Turns out all the fuzzy little bastard wanted was to have his belly scratched. At 3 a.m.
What's on your plate this weekend?