11.08.01 :: 9:28 am

Temptation Island 2 suckered me in last night, and, before I knew it, two hours were gone from my life and the only thing I learned was that you should never marry your weasely-looking boyfriend on national television after everyone and their mother saw you macking on a hottie last year. Shannon, you totally settled. For poop.

Someone keep me away from the pet store in the mall because every time I go in there to buy Stoosh-dog something (like her kicky new argyle sweater, or special treats), I wind up asking to play with the puppies and then actually consider dropping $500 on american bulldogs, or boxers, or rat terriers.

Thermal underwear is on the list of things to buy for the camping extravaganza on Saturday, and I can't think of anything more unsexy than that. Even the name reeks of NO SEX. Say it: thermal. underwear.

Actively boycotting "Shallow Hal," in other news. What's so fucking funny about fat people, anyway? Also, Gwyneth Paltrow can die any day now, I'm ready. What a waste of oxygen, that one.

I'm ranting. Because I have a headache. Because I drank too much wine with My Boy last night, while I watched him carjack in Grand Theft Auto 3.

Pass me the new "morning relief" alka-seltzer.

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