Not that anyone wants to read this crap...

But it is my blog damnit.

Maybe it's my newly aquired old age.
Maybe it's the wonderful lay I just had.
Maybe it's the 3 cups of sugar I put in the tea.
Maybe it's the fact that I know I have to wake up in 5 hours to go to work and perform various third world guerilla torturing rituals on my sad, sad feet.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's the Chocolate Fudge Frosting I'm currently eating straight from the jar with my ring finger (the spoon fell on the carpet and got all hairy...I concidered wiping it off or walking my lazy ass to the kitchen for a new one, but I strongly feel that neither of those choices are right for me at this point in my life. And the ring finger is probably the cleanest. Right?)

But I gotta tell ya, I'm in a fucking great ass mood.

As BF and I sat in the theater waiting for *Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle* to come on, I was telling him about my house. You know, my house. He was kinda offended that I didn't callit "our house," but shit, until we send out thank you cards for all the wonderful wedding gifts we just got, it's my house. Thinking about my house always makes me happy. If and, uh, when I get this house all built and tricked out, it's going to be soo awesome.

And I'm gonna have 1 baby and I'm going to be fucking great mom. There was some dude at BFs house this afternoon, and he had his 4 year old son with him. That kid was so freaking cool. We raced, did flips, burn paws, ran in circles til the weakest [me] collapsed...et cetera.

And I'm going to be a fucking fantastic hair dresser. Mom and RL Wriggle were the first recipitents* of my semi-professional hair-cutting and coloring skills. And, with the risk of sounding modest, when they woke up this morning, they looked better than they have ever looked and will ever looked again.

MMM, sleep.