Britney, please save yourself.

Saradia and I gmail chatted this morning. The thing I love about sararara is that she shares my insatiable and not-all-that-secret love for all things celebrity. dissecting celebrity news for me is like...brain masturbation. wait, suddenly I've somehow linked Sara to masturbation, and that's hella weird. new paragraph.

anyway, I love me some gossip. and I really get involved in it. The whole Britney Spears thing is just sad though... It's akin to one of those accidents that you see by the side of the road, and ghoulishly find yourself straining for a glimpse of severed head or detached foot*. anyway, we decided on a plan of action, so that Britters can regain her pop princess crown**

1. STAY IN REHAB!!!! (this one is kind of important)
2. stop with the wigs. embrace the baldness, until it grows out a bit. then adopt a pixie cut, in lightest ash blonde.
3. go on a health retreat...disappear from public view for six months or so, and emerge slim, toned, and glowing.
4. adopt an icy, glittery Grace Kelly/ southern belle image. elocution and deportment lessons should have been a part of the health retreat. perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier? anyway, shock the world by radiating calm, charm and grace.
5. move to France. (no cheese though! let's maintain the slim tonedness, shall we?)
6. work with Goldfrapp-types and craft an album (You May Call Me Mistress Spears) of perfect slivers of icy, glittery fabulous pop. Duet with Kylie. remix by Scissor Sisters.
   
7. REMAIN SINGLE! this is probably safest, until Trousersnake realises his destiny, and comes running back to the new, fantasticacious Brit.
   

...et voila! the balance of things will be restored. And also, I will not have to look at any more flabby shaved coochie, or nasty white-trash outfits, or nasty weaves. and that, my friends, is that.

* or perhaps that is just me.
** there are some Britney songs on my Ipod. you have a problem with that? I'll play you some probot and then you can SUCKIT! STOP JUDGING ME!!!!

" I will rip his head off and crap down his neck"

I am horribly premenstrual at the moment. I know this because everything makes me a) horrbly depressed, b) intensely, insanely enraged and c) weepy. Usually simultaneously. so it doesn't take much to send me off the deep end. say, being cut off at the post office. or some shithead humorless little teenager joining a group that i moderate and calling me stupid and pointless because god forbid I should joke about him being underage. man. teenagers take themselves so goddamn seriously. it's moments like that that make me wonder if I was like that. I see them in bars and clubs and stores and outside colleges and they are all hairstyles and pose. I'm totally generalising. But, frickit, hormones!!!!!! I can generalise, or i can smash things, and that won't go down too well. And, you know, I'm sure he's a perfectly nice little boy once you get to know him, and I'm sure we just got off on the wrong foot. but, dammit, HORMONES!!!!! totally wrong time of month!!!!!!

and who calls a moderator stupid anyway? I could totally block his ass! or replace it with a note reading "post removed due to high levels of being a TOOL!"I could also say something about people WhO tYPe iN mIxed CaPS but that would be too easy. Also I already said it a while ago.

Sigh. the worst part is is that as annoyed and infuriated and psychotically homicidal as I now feel, I also feel guilty for a) hurting his feelings and b) venting my spleen online. I feel like I should take the moral high road. Because, you know, I'm an Adult. Yeah. Its one of the things you must accept in exchange for being able to drink whatever you want, getting to eat candy for breakfast, and not having to have sex in cars.

Hmm. I fell a little better. Still kinda want to make with stabby-stabby inna throatsicle.

edit: I just realised that when I have PMS, I totally turn Klingon. That is kind of awesome.

Whine and Roses.

I'm not a Valentine's day fan. I actually loathe it, to be honest. I don't have a problem with love, or romance, per se, it's just that in my opinion, valentine's day isn't really about that any more. It's become the Xmas of romance: commercialised and sentimentalised and gooey and nauseating. Personally, I prefer not to have romance forced down my throat until the gag reflex kicks in. It's as if someone decided that the essence of romantic love, lust and desire could be distilled into roses, cadbury's milk tray, and stuffed toys holding a cutesy message on a heart. And the obsessive, let's-have-everything-in-red thing. red boxer shorts. red lingerie (whorey, but that's for another blog post). red envelopes. red wrapping paper. red kitchen utensils. red socks. red newspapers. you know, romantic stuff like... oh, wait, you mean that's just a marketing ploy? who'da guessed. not me, oh no.

I wouldn't even mind the blatant mercenary zeal with which hallmark and co. attempt to part us from our hard-earned cash; it's the sense of desperation that pervades the entire day: couples that attempt to squeeze in a year's worth of romance into one day, singles who feel that if they don't have a date on this one day of the year, they are a romantic failure doomed to die alone and have their corpses nibbled by their 17 cats.

Well, at least this year I don't have to give giri-chocolates* to my boss.

*Ahhh bugger it. I'm not explaining that one, so you're just going to have to Google it.