Or, well, don’t. And that’s okay, too. Because, really, why would you waste time on something from which you’ll never receive a return? I always say I’m going to try to be better about replying to guestbook entries and notes, and I always mean it at the time I say it, but it never seems to work out. Ah well. At least I have nice hair, and I can’t help but think that counts for something.

*****

Whenever I hear someone describe a wine, I think they sound like a twat, with their “saucy bouquet” this and their “cheeky undertone” that, not to mention all the ridiculous “notes” they claim to taste; “I detect a hint of apple wood smoked sea bass and the just the very soupcon of…is that athletic shoe insole? Why, yes, yes I believe it is! Exquisite!.” Twats. But is that because only twats are wine connoisseurs, or because the correct language for describing wines makes everyone sound like a twat? Or have I just never heard a non-twatty person describe a wine? Are there ways of doing it without sounding like a complete and utter pretentious douche bag? Why can’t people just say things like, “This wine is good” or “this wine is really good” or “this wine is crap” and leave it at that?

My dad liked wine. He had a guy who would send him cases of the stuff from around the world. Dad kept all of his wine in a little wine cellar-y section of the basement, and he’d drink it all the time. Was he a connoisseur? I don’t know. But he wasn’t a twat, that much I can tell you, so probably he wasn’t a connoisseur. Dad always used to say that a good wine is one you like to drink, that it doesn’t matter what other people say or how much a wine costs; if you like it, it’s a good wine. Seems like sound advice to me. This wine I’m drinking right now is pretty on time, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s excellent.

This entry was brought to you by the letter “T” for “Twat” and the number 1, that being how many bottles I’ve consumed this evening. Me, I’m feeling no pain.

*****

Russell T. Davies, I believe you’ve hit upon a niche the pornography industry desperately needed: Homosexual British Science Fiction Porn. In the penultimate episode (Or perhaps it was just the first half of the of the last episode. Either way) of Torchwood , when the two Captain Jacks kissed? Dear lord JESUS. I saw it a week ago, and I’m still all goose-bumpy.

*****

We’re thinking of putting bamboo floors in the house, but I have some reservations. On the one hand, bamboo is more durable than hardwood and a more environmentally responsible choice. On the other hand, I’m afraid it will attract pandas. I don’t know how you prevent a panda infestation. Do they make panda repellant? If they make cat repellant, you’d think they’d make the panda version, too, but I haven’t found any online. And I can’t ask the lady at the vet because she runs away every time I get near her. And what about the cats? The flea infestation was bad enough, you know? If the cats were to get pandas, I think I’d have to kill myself. How would you treat a cat with pandas? Are there panda dips? Panda collars? I just don’t know.

*****

There are always cookies at work. ALWAYS. And I love cookies dearly, you know? Not to mention the fact that I have a serious sugar addiction over which I have no fucking control. I want to stay away, I truly do, but I am so very weak. Every day, I cram handful after handful of delicious cookies into my mouth, swallowing poisonous sugar and self-loathing in equal measure. I hate myself for doing it, but I cannot stop. Or can I? I was thinking today that whenever I eat cookies, I tell myself that it’s not my fault because I cannot help myself and I cannot resist the urge to binge on sugar. But do I eat the cookies because I cannot help myself or resist the urge to binge on sugar, or because I tell myself that I cannot help myself or resist the urge to binge on sugar? It’s a conundrum.

The cookie binging has to stop, though, it really does. FIVE MONTHS UNTIL I WILL BE IN A GODDAMN BATHING SUIT. I am queasy just thinking about it. Perhaps I’ll invest in a muumuu.

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